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npwanis  o\ 

.S^a^.lSp- ,         " 


of  tJiu    JHctiona> 

T.  A  ernaa  ™^ 

Wj  bell  a  sosa. 

h  •  New  Biograpliical  gupplemant  of  wpWHrdK^ 
of  970o  Nrnnea, 


OF  UIERAliV  BEFEKENCE.  With  8(100  DlaBtratiuiUL  Tho- 
"ilj  reTU«d  »nd  improTod  by  CHicniOET  A.  GtoDiucH,  DJl 
>4  ud  Kdab  PoBTia,  D^.,  of  Yalo  College. 

t  matMr  compiscd  in  the  VsBaTEB's  GuIbea  DtcTIOKlBT,  fl 
'  IS  the  Ibllowia^  A[.puidi««,  vhidi  will  ihow  tbst  ao  pslni  )} 
Dnln>  it  ■  oom^ete  Liurarj  RefetcDrw-bouk : — 
IrW  Hlatwy  of  the  Engliih  Lan-      h.  FiDnoDadiig  VooabnlAi;  of  ft 

4  piufpfin  *a<i  InflDi 

I    Of   YronimiiiAtioii.      By 

1KB  *nd  W.  A.  WHiniLUi. 
Lg  >  Syiiopal«  a!  Wsrda 

I  TreatiM  on  OrthographT. 

Bed  L^Tln  i^EVf   r 

ha.  EtTmologio&l  VDoabnluy  of  II 

Vatis  thil  ira  spoil  In 

UtSTT   S 
T  otliaK 

Pranoniuiuig  Tooabnlarisi  of  Koden 
aniiirapniQi]  and  Btoiraphlcal  Kum. 
Br  J.  Tbdiuil  MJL 

&  Pneonnamg  TowlndaiT  of  Orb- 

rnuB  English  Oirtaniui  NiiD«i  with  tiioir 
dcrlvttkililL  uiKniloillini.  mnd  ilUniiiilllnt) 

Hi  ^■nsiHKed 

tn.  puetlciJ.  oi      . ... 

I  wid  Ufthkal  oac 

og  (D  ttae  AiigfltolDB3'  And 

lunatic!   I   A  DiOIionaiTOf  SnOtBtiDIIl.     Sdecl«d 

'      -   I  nniLiini  br  W11.U1H  a,  WraRsa. 

itAlnlng  All  WcriliL  Ftmbo,  Pmflrbi, 

i    OdLIm|1iIb1    Eiprttfliuu    from  Ok 

wb  Uiln,  >nd  ModKRi  Forolgn  Lu- 

B5^KiSS^"2?S"«  u  I  *  ^™  ffioenpUcsl  Diotloiiai7  of 

lg  Tooabnlary  oI  Serip- 

NiUiiiiiilllv,  l^l^9Sl«^  end  Dau  DfQInb 
lUld  IleiUli. 

A  lUt  of  AbbrevUUoDi,  OonbM- 

'    ■■.Ifaty.llipullKiUqWllllng 

JtoviBW,  Oa.  1873. 

"Beveat}'  yenri  paeaed  before  JoasBOB  vrae  followed  by  Wehst 
American  wrUci,  who  fmced  the  t»»k  of  ths  Eogliah  Dictionary  1 
full  apjirtclatiuD  of  Its  requiiementB,  leading  u>  betltir  ptauLioil  rn 

"  HiB  laboriooB  oomparison  of  twenty  l/mgiii^es,  thocgh  nevei 
Uahed,  bore  fmit  In  his  own  mind,  and  his  tramiiig  placed  him  b 
koowltulye  and  juiigmsnt  far  in  advEUioe  of  Johnaon  as  a  phUd 
WabsterB  *  American  Dictionary  of  Cbe  English  Langnoga  wW 
llabed  in  1S28.  end  of  coiirne  appeared  at  ones  in  Engiaud,  < 
nuweasive  rt-FriiUug  ruia  ui  jwf  A«^t  iltntlit  MyhtMtplaeeatapn 

"  Tha  «ciwpta»oe  of  bh  Amaiican  Dictionary  in  England  ha»' 
bnd  imtttanaB  «fi'aut  in  keeping  up  the  conunnnity  of  8;>uec)i,  te  i 
whldl  would  be  a  grievuiia  harai,  not  to  Engliah-flpeakiug  a 
alone,  I'nit  to  mankind.  The  reault  of  this  baa  been  that  the  ccn 
Dtct^onary  must  suit  both  aidoa  of  the  Atlantic."  .... 

"The  good  average  businuaH-like  character  of  Webeter'B  Diotto 
both  In  styW  and  uiatter,  made  it  tut  dietinctiy  sailed  aa  Johnaoi^ 
distinctly  iinsuited  to  be  exponilud  and  re-udiled  by  othra'  9 
PyoifOiat  Goodrich'*  Rdltion  of  1847  is  not  mnch  more  thitn  etM 
and  sniendisl,  but  other  n^viKions  since  hare  ho  much  novelty  afi 
aa  to  be  detnribed  aa  dialniict  works."  .... 

"  Tha  American  retisad  WobBtor'B  Dictionary  of  1864,  publiab 
America  and  England,  is  of  an  altogether  higher  order  than  tliM 
{The  London  Impenal  and  Scudtsit't*].  It  baara  on  iiti  Citl*- 
namen  of  Drs.  Goodrtcb  and  Piirtni;  but  inaamnch  a 
proveniBOi  ia  in  the  etymological  depamneat,  tne  a 
committee]  to  Di.  Uahn,  of  Berlin,  we  prefer  to  describe  it  ia  aw 
1h«  WebHt^f'Mahn  UictiocaTy.  Many  otl)er  literaiy  men,  amon^ 
l*rofeEiotB  Whitney  aod  Danti,  aided  in  the  task  of  compilatioj 
rerisioi:.  On  OBUBideiatioD  it  seems  that  the  editors  and  contril 
have  gone  tar  Cuw>rd  improving  Webster  to  the  utmost  that  U 
buar  improvement.  The  vuatbvlary  hat  beaime  aimoit  c 
regardB  ttsnal  wnrda,  tuhUe  the  deflniiimts  keep  tliroHg/n/al  to  S 
limjik  lyartfid  ttyh,  and  the  derivatioDU  are  asHigned  with  t" 
good  modern  authorities.'' 

•"  On  the  wnflla,  the  Webstor-STahn  Dictionary  as  it  atands,  fi 
■  ■  ,    and    OEBTAHrLT    IHl    B18T    PRACTICAL     — 


IBAH7  ■* 




KDr.  Richardson's  Philological  Dictionary  of  the 
ENGUSH  LANGUAGE.  Couibiiiing  Eiiiliinatiou  aith  Ftiiuologj, 
Mid  oopioii^  iUiutnted  br  QauutionB  fniia  the  Bnrt  Ainhoritiei. 
Nfta  BiUtuiH,  with  a  Supplauieni  wiiitainuiB  adiiitiunftl  WokIb  auil 
farther  lUiiBttaCioiu.  Ju  ii  vols,  -(Ui.  £4  lln.  tjil.  UHh-bLiuiid  in 
Bnaaia.  £5  i:ii<.  «rf,     SoBeto.  £6  12i. 

Tha   H^'H-iti,  with  thonB  of  the  mkiuB  rami!;,  tire  treni>d  tn  th<>Ir 
origin.    Tbe  £i(^>«dt<oM  ue  dedocad  iiam  the  priuiilive  Dwanuig 
tliruQKti  the  varioiu  iuiui{ea.    The  QudIjiUum*  wn  unui(!icd  obmuo- 
logioally.  ftuni  the  enrlieat  period  la  the  pcoeuul  limy. 
The  Buppli-iQL'ut  B-'pornlolj.    ito.    VM. 
An  8vD.  editiuu,  witliout  tfas  QuotBtious,  15..     HBlf-nueia,  20t. 
RDada,  2-Iji. 
L  Supplementary  English  Glossary.   OrmtaTpIng  12,000 
Wnrda  or  MBBuiuga  oeenrring  [n  DuylLali  Litemture  not  f'lUDii  iu  n-uy 
oUiec  Dictionarj.    WitU  lUiiotnitLye  (Juotalions.    By  T.  Leww  0. 
Davii>,U.A.    DemjeTO.    U\s. 
Aynonyins  and  Antoujx^s  of  the  English  Language. 
Oolleoted   mid  Contiantud.     By  the  late  Vt^n.  C.  J.  SuiTU,   M.^. 
PoBtevo.    5.. 
vBynonyms  Discriminated.     A  Catalogue  of  Bynoopaoiia 
Wtiria  is  Uiu  Euglifih  Laaguage,  \titb  ibe'a  TSiTioaB  BhudRS  of  Menii- 
ing,  Ac.    HlDatmied  by  ({notuiioiia  fniui  lStaiid»rd  W/ibua.    By  ibe 
Iftto  Van.  O.  J.  BiiTTH,  M.A.     Demy  8vo.    16s. 
'  A  Biographical  Dictionary.    By  Thompbon  Ooopib,  P.8.A., 
Editor  of  "  Men  of  tile  TimH,"  and  Joint  Editor  of  "  Athena  Cnutti. 
brittieowB."    1  vol,    8to.     12s. 
TbiB  volume  is  nut  a  mere  repetition  of  the  corteiitB  of  previooB  works, 
but  embwdiea  the  zcanitii  of  louiy  yeum'  iBFboriomi  retuwivb  oi  rnre  publiiv- 
tiMMKBd  mpublilbed  duoameuta.    Any  uotti  of  omlnaion  wUuh  mn;  be 
WB4  ta  the  Pobliahera  wiU  be  duly  con>tld<ired. 

"It  1i  in  tmpoTiuQl  url^oKl  conCitbotioti  (u  liiv  UterhUiTccf  mm  elosa  by  k  pa(T«hkiuB 
•dwLir. ,  ,  ,  ,  11  Beemi  In  evaj  our  udmlnible,  and  tiiUy  w  Jnsii);  Ibis  claUui  Ni  iu 
Ir'Ml'inn  f— *■  T  I"  •"' '—'"■'■  (/uartBrtJ,  Eancw. 

i  Biographical  and  Critioal  Dictionary  of  Painters 

«nd  EugiatHTB.  Wttii  a  Li»l  of  Ciphera,  Moouutums.  end  Mafts, 
ByMio'HAia,  BEiAS.    Eiduryai  M'lltion,  thoroiKjIdy  mUcd.    Ihithe 

L  Supplement  of  Becent  and  Living   Painters.     B.v 

USKHY  OTTLET.      18(. 

I  Cottage  Qardener'a  Diotloaary.  WitJi  a,  Supple- 
ment, eoxitftiiiing  all  thu  new  plenTts  nod  vittietiea  to  the  y««r  l««a. 
Edited  by  GsoBtta  W.  Johnson.     Po«t  Svo.    Cloth.    t».  liii. 






In  Fiily-tws  VolnmeB,  Bound  in  Oloth,  at  Eighteenpecce  each 

A.  Did 

B«Bttie,  Tith  Hanuir  bj  .Ui«  Est. 

CoUini,  editedi  with  Memoir,  by  W. 

Uoi  TaOHU.    u.  ed. 
Omrpw,  Invlndtng  hi*  TrsuUtlani. 

Eduid,   wllb    Usmiilr,    util    AddiltuDal 

OoiTil^l  Pluses,  br  JcFBS  Bbdob,  t'^A. 

STDb.    u.»d. 

r&lBOner,  with  Henoii'  hj  th«  Bev. 

Milton,  vitlL  Mimair  by  tli«  Bar.  J. 

Pope,  with  Memoir  by  Ui«  Bar.  &. 
Prior,  with  Memoir  by  the  Ber,  J. 

Surey,   edited,  with   Memoir,   by 
Jura  TiowELL.    IL  ed. 

Swift,  with  Memoir  by  the  Bev,  J. 

Thomion,  with  Hamolr  by  Sir  a.    1 

Toung.  with  Memoir  by  the  Bot.  J.  J 

C«apMa  Rtd  mi 

H,B.-A>plM  ot  tb«  ruM  Piper  EdlOca, 
lOlimM  (exctvt  CoUUu,  M.  ed.). 

boond  In  lulf-mimou.    -fs  91. 
-bMi  PonralU,  nu;  iCUI  be  hkd.  priOB  U.  per    1 



Xttx  fif^-two  TolameB  whioh  have  hitherto  Ibrmsd  the  veli-kaowa 
I  AJdine  Series,  embody  the  voika  of  nearly  all  tlis  mare  popular  English 
>.  poadogj  writers,  whether  lyrio,  epio,  or  aatirio,  up  to  llie  end  of  the 
i  wghtaenth  oentory.  But  eince  uiat  time  tbe  wonderFn]  fertillt;  of  Gngliab 
1  lilennue  has  prodnoed  ttaaj  wcitars  equal,  and  in  «o<ae  uases  far  saperior, 
I-  to  the  nuLJuiity  of  their  predeceasora ;  and  the  widely  aagnieDtad  roll  of 
I  HckDOwlei%ed  iCngliiih  poets  now  ountainj  many  namisa  uot  repreaunted 
hi  the  series  of  "  Aldine  Poets," 

With  ft  view  of  providing  for  thia  want,  and  of  making  a  seriei  which 

bsfl  long  hold  B  high  plaoe  in  pobltc  eatimatiou  a  more  ^equate  repr<fsea- 

[  tstlon  of  the  whole  bid;  of  English  poetry,  tlio  Pnblishera  have  del«r- 

[  mined  to  iMue  a  aooond  aeries,  whiub  will  ooutain  some  of  the  alder  poeta, 

le  works  of  recent  writers,  so  far  ad  siay  be  pruotioable  by  anange- 

!■  meat  with  the  repreaent&tivea  of  the  poets  wliObS  works  are  still  oopyright. 

One  volnme,  or  mare,  at  a  time  will  be  iatned  at  ahuri  inturvals ;  they 

will  be  auiform  in  binding  and  style  with  the  last  flne-paper  edition  of  the 

Aldiua  Poeta,  in  fcap.  8vo.  lize,  printed  at  the  Ohiswiok  Press.    Price 

5«,  per  Toluue, 

Each  Tolntoe  will  be  edited  with  notes  where  neceigaryfoT  eladdBtioii  of 
the  text;  a  caemoir  will  be  preflxed,  and  a  portrait,  where  an  Bntheallo 
cue  is  oooesaible. 

The  bllowiiig  we  already  pnbliahed : — 

The  Poehs  or  Whj-um  Blakji.  With  Memoli  by  W.  U.  Bouetti, 
and  portrait  by  Jeena. 

Tra  PoBMH  or  Saitob,  Bogbbs.  Trith  Memoir  by  Edward  Bell,  ud 
portrait  by  Jeecs. 

Toi  PoniB  or  Tbomis  Ohattsbtob.  2  vol&  Edited  by  the  Ber. 
W,  Skott,  with  Memoir  by  Edward  BelL 

Tsa  PoiHs  or  &a  ^ai/tsb  Bm^doh,  Sib  Hugh  Oyrros,  and  Seleo- 
dons  &om  other  Oourtly  Puets,  With  Intruductian  by  the  But.  Dr. 
Hannah,  and  portrait  of  Sir  W.  Ealeigh. 

TsE  PoKue  OP  Tbouab  Oaiu'eell.  With  Memoir  by  W.  Allinghsiji,. 
snd  portrait  by  Je<>na. 

Thb  Pqbhb  or  Okoroe  Uebbebt.  (Oomplete  EWtion,]  With  Meroolr 
by  Ihe  Bev.  A.  B.  Grosort,  and  portrait. 

Tbs  Poeub  or  Johs  EiAn.  With  Memoir  by  harA  Hooghton,  and 
poTDait  by  Jeena. 




Editto  bi  a  w.  sikgee. 

Tub  fonnstioti  of  tmcD'^niiu  Sb^eapesre  JttmAta^  Booetica  Imm 
•  drBnukod  tiitjk  cdiea|>  portable  edition,  with  itfnmx  tttk,  Uwt  ahi 
*Ue  •  wnad  test  «il£  •vcli  Dotai  u  msj  bc)p  todoaditelliOH 
and  mnM  bi  the  Letta  oodoBlaiuliBg  of  the  nilbar.  Tie  Pid 
tiwrafon  detcnDined  to  nfidiit  Bit.  Kat^*  ^Ff-ll-knosc  Editim,  pa 
!■  10  nda^  ^k>U  8*0.,  fof  unie  time  oat  otannl,  bud  : —  ^  ^  - 

I  Td. 

•  with  tlie  vell-launnt  AUIm  K 

if  BritkhPodB 


I.  Tb«  Ltfe  of  RIukfcpMre.    Hie  Tempest    The  Two  GmiI 
of   Vexoun.    The   Uen?  Wivee  of  Wmii*at.    Hun 

Td.  IL  Cmteid;  of  Erron.    Macfa  Ado  about  Nothing.    Love'a  X 
Loot.    Hidjiiinunei  Nighf ■  Dream.    Merrhoet  of  Veid 
VuJ.  IIL  A*  Yon  LiltB  H.     TwBing  of  tho  Shrew.    All's  WeD 

End*  Wt-il.    Tw6)(lh  Night,  or  What  Yon  Will. 
yvL  IT.  Wiirtei'i  T>I«L    Fetiolce.    King  John.    King  Biohud  H 
Vol.  V.  King  Henry  IV.,  Parta  L  and  U.    King  Henry  V. 
VoL  VI.  King  Henry  VI.,  Partii  I.  II.  «ui  IIL    King  Bichard  m 
'Vol.  VIL  King  Henry  VIU.     Troiloa  and  Creamda.    Goriolaniu. 
M.  VIIL  Titni  Audroniuui.    Boiuuo  end  Joliet.    Timan  of  M 
Julina  Cuuoi. 
DC.  llKbelh.    HiunJeL     King  Lotr. 
Vol.  Z.  OtlivUo.    Autaiiy  Bind  Cleoi«tm.    Oymbeliue. 

f/«f/arm  tilh  Um  oLmm,  price  ii.6d:  ta  half-^vocco.  Si.        : 


Bt  Whuuk  WiTiMB  Luini: 

ftfOonnt  of  the  orijrfu  and  •onrce  of  each  play,  H 

llie  mbjcot-niatter  of  eae| 

vt Kit tr^miiiy) ilia  ii£ 

wunrUunablit  bikI  oartful  aiitloirou 

'i  OIORQl  BEH  t  sons,-  TOBK  STREfTT,  COVBNT  OA^ 

Bdjiu'i  Sottai. 

TalM  af  a  TtuvbUsi.    By  WukihS' 

TonlsVlsr,,     M.Ui 

Ohulfli   Lunb'a  Talei   Itom   Shak- 

loagfellinr'i  EntngcIinBajidToici), 

KlWa'i  Paradise  Loit.    i)(. 

Begaiabd,*  other  FoNu.  3*. 

Hobln  Hood  Balladi.   3;. 

Vatton'i  OompIaM  Angler.      Ar< 

Livei  of  SoimB,   WMtoa, 

Eei6BTLEy'»  Editinn.  IS  Vols,  ia  clotfa  a 


□tie  of  "  Eixrvm  SmBon,"  ._  

e  boin  idopwd  lo  isdiulc  Ifaeqilrit  In  wOick 
poMlblB  BcconoT  ■■  ngudi  taxt.  ud 

I   Irringf'i  StnMli  Book,     is,      Witk 

-  EiawBilui,  Mid  Tbe  Golden  I 
Ugnd.  I 
Wayside  Iifi,  Kiln  Standiih, 

Bimu'i    Poetleal   Worln.      4),  Rd. 
' BongB  and  Balladi.  4i.  6( 

Oelendga>i  Foemi.    4(.  SA     ma 



-Walton's  Angler.    «*.  6d.    Willi  a 



Rome   and   the    Campagno,     A  Hiatorioal  and 

■n^al  DeicripllDQ  otUieSlle,  UnlUdiMi.  ind  NelgbbDarbmd  of  ■odsil  B 
Uh  Bev.  BoBiET  Busk,  IaU  FeUuw  uDd  Tnur  of  Tnuli;  <:nUf!gB,  Ukulirlilg 
figfity  EogTiivUiEa  hf  Jsvm,  uA  ngiaeroii]  Mtpa  uul  FUn^  uid  in  J 
bringing  the  Wgtk  down  10  IOT«.    Demy  tlo.    ^  Ji. 

Ancient  Athena ;  its  History,  Topography,  and 

MAitra.    BrTHOiua.HimaillTnti.LJJ.,  *olbijru(    Tbo  HUlot/ of  »• 
Kuae,"    Bnper-rof Ji]  8vo.    UlDsbratedj  doLb.    £1  61. 

The  Hlatory  of  the  Kings  of  Rome.     By  Dr. 

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The  Decline  of  the  Roman  Repablio.    By  the  kte  G 

V0I.L  Fromlhe  INstnu 
VOL  III.  iDoIwllDg  the 

A  History  of  England  during  the  Early  and  M 

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GEORGE    BELL    &    SON 

^  • 

»*  Ftr  List  0/  BoHN*8  Libbabiib  966  ihe  end  of  the  Vohn 




"Vol.  III. 


"  Mr.  Addiion  is  generally  allowed  to  be  the  most  correct  and  el 
all  our  writers ;  yet  some  inaccuracies  of  style  have  escaped  hii 
it  is  the  chief  design  of  the  following  notes  to  point  out.  A 
this  sort,  well  executed,  would  be  of  use  to  foreigners  who  si 
language ;  and  even  to  such  of  our  countrymen  as  wish  to  wr 
perfect  purity." — R.  Worcester  [Bp.  Hura]. 

**  I  set  out  many  years  ago  with  a  warm  admiration  of  this  amiabl 
[Addison] .  I  then  took  a  surfeit  of  his  natural,  easy  manner ; 
taken,  like  mj  betters,  with  the  raptures  and  hiffh  rights  of  Sha 
My  maturer  judgment,  or  lenient  age,  (call  it  which  you  will,) 
led  me  back  to  the  favourite  of  my  youth.  And  here,  I  think 
stick ;  for  such  useful  sense,  in  so  charming  words,  I  find  not  els 
His  taste  is  so  pure,  and  his  Virailian  prose  (as  Dr.  Young  styl 
exquisite,  that  I  have  but  now  found  out,  at  the  close  of  a  criti 
the  full  yalue  of  his  writings." — Ibid. 

**  Whoeyer  wishes  to  attain  an  English  style,  familiar  but  not  coa 
elegant  but  not  ostentatious,  must  giye  his  days  and  nights 
volumes  of  Addison." — Dr.  Johnson. 

**  It  was  not  till  three  generations  had  laughed  and  wept  over  the  ] 
Addison  that  the  omission  \of  a  monument  to  his  menwry]  was  s 
by  public  veneration.    At  length,  in  our  own  time,  his  image,  s 
graven,  appeared  in  Poets*  Comer. — Such  a  mark  of  national 
was  due  to  the  unsullied  statesman,  to  the  accomplished  scholar 
master  of  pur(j  English  eloquence,  to  the  consummate  painter  of 
manners.    It  was  due,  above  all,  to  the  great  satirist,  who  alon 
how  to  use  ridicule  without  abusing  it,  who,  without  inflicting  a 
effected  a  great  social  reform,  and  who  reconciled  wit  and  virtu 
a  long  and  disastrous  separation,  during  which  wit  had  been  lee 
by  profligacy,  and  virtue  by  fanaticism." — Macaulay. 






Bt  eichard  hued,  d.b. 


3i  Mm  (SMtiini, 



•     •     «     »  -  -       ,-  ^  •  .    .  .  ■.  '        '  -    -  ^ 











V    •■    V  w 



I.  On  Inconstancy  and  Irresolution 

163.  Disappointment  in  Love— Letter  from  Leonora — 

Consolation  ...... 

164.  Stoij  of  Theodosius  and  Conslantia 

165.  Introduction  of  French  Phrases  in  the  History  of  the 

War— Specimen  in  a  LeUer 
I,  DuraLility  of  Writing — Anecdote  of  an  atheistical 

Author     ...... 

I.  On  Good-nature,  as  the  Effect  of  Constitution 

170.  On  JeabuBy  ..... 

171.  Subjec.jintinued— Address  lothose  who  have  jealous 

Hushands  ..... 

173.  Account  of  a  Grinning-match 

177,  Good-nature,  as  a  Moral  Virtue    . 

179-  Various  Dispositions  of  Headers — Account  of  a  Whis- 
tling-match— Yawning   .... 

18L  Cruelty  of  Parents  in  the  Affair  of  Marriage 

183.  On  Fable— Fable  of  Pleasure  and  Pain  . 

186.  On  Infidelity  .... 

■  ~t.  Crutl^  of  Parents— Lelter  from  a  Father  to  his  Soc 

Duty  to  Parents       .... 
191.  On  the  Whims  of  Lottery-AdventureiB     . 
195.  On  Temperance  .... 

198.  Character  of  the  Salamanders — Story  of  a  Caatilian 
and  his  Wife  ..... 

201.  Devotion — Enthusiasm      .... 
203.  On  Seducers,  and  their  ilUcit  Progeny — Letter  from 

a  natural  Son     .  .  .  ,  . 

309.  Description  of  a  Female  Pander — Affected  Method  of 
Psalm-singing — Erratum  in  the  Paper  on  Drinking 
'.  Notions  of  the  Heathens  on  Devotion 
,  Simonidea's  Satire  on  Women 
ill.  Traosmtgration  of  Souls — Letters  on  Simonides's  Sa- 
tire on  Women    ..... 
|[3,  On  habitual  good  Intentions  .... 
15.  Education— compared  to  Sculpture  .  . 

!9    Vanity  of  Honours  and  Titles 

221.  Use  of  Mottoa — Love  of  Latin  among  the  Comr 

People — Signature  Letters    . 
223.  Account  of  Sappho — Her  Hymn  to  Venus 
■223.  Discretion  and  Ciratiing 
227.  Letter  on  the  Lover's  Leap 
229.  Fragment  of  Sappho  .... 
231.  Letter  on  BashfbbiesB — ReflectioaB  on  Modeety   . 
233.  History  of  the  Lover's  Leap   . 
235.  Account  of  the  Tnink-malier  in  the  Theatre 
237.  On  the  Ways  of  Providence    . 
239.  Various  Ways  of  managing  a  Dehate 
241.  Letter  on  the  Absence  of  Lovers — Remedies  propot 
243.  On  the  Beauty  and  Loveliness  of  Virtue  ■ 
245.  Simplicity  of  Character — Letters  on  innocent  Div 

sions — Absent  Lovers — frota  a  Trojan  . 
247.  Diderent  Clafifies  of  Female  Orators    . 
249.  Laughter  and  Ridicule      .... 
251.  Letter  in  the  Cries  of  London 
253.  On  Detraction  among  bad  Poets— Pope's  Essay  i 

Criticism       ..... 

255.  Uses  of  Ambition — Fame  difficult  to  be  obtained 

256.  Subject — Disadvantages  of  Ambition 

257.  Ambition  hurtful  to  the  Hopes  of  Futurity 

261.  Love  and  Marriage     .... 

262.  The  Speelator'a  Success — Caution  in  Writing — ai 

DDunces  his  Criticism  on  Milton 
265.  Female  Head-dress — Will.  Honeycomb's  Noliona  of 
267-  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost     . 
269.  Visit  from  Sir  Roger — his  Opinions  on  various  Mattel 
27L  Letters  from  Tom  Trippil,  complaining  of  a  Rree 

Quotation — sohclting  a  Peep  at  Sir  Roger  from 

Showman     .... 
273.   Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost  .  .    . 

275.  Dissection  of  a  Beau's  Head 
-  279.  CriticiEm  on  Paradise  Lost 

281.  Dissection  of  a  Coquette's  Heart 
^  285.  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost 
287.  On  the  Civil  Constitution  of  Great  Britain    . 
289.  Heflections  on  Bills  of  Mortality — Story  of  a  Dervia 
291.  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost 
293,  Connexion  betwixt  Prudence  and  good  Fortune-- 

Fable  of  a  Drop  in  (he  Ocean    . 
295.  Letter  on  Pin-money — Reflections  on  that  Custom    ( 
297.  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost  .  .  ,     . 

299.  Letter  &om  Sir  John  Envil,  married  to  a  Woman  (| 

Quality    .... 
303.  Criliciam  on  Paradise  Lost      . 


05.  Project  of  the  new  Preach  Political  Academy      .  313 

[)9,  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost  .  .  .  .  'Jl  1 
11.  LetttT  on  rortune-stealers — Remarks  on  them — on 

Widows 317 

il5-  CriticiEm  on  Paradise  Lost      .  .  -  .217 

117.  On  Waste  of  Time:-JourDal  of  a  Citizen              .  320 

21.  CriticiEm  on  Paradise  Lost     ....  '223 

\  Clarinda's  Jomnal  of  a  Week        •             ■             •  324 

.  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost     ....  230 

.  Visit  with  Sir   Hoger  de  Coverley  to  Westminster 

Abbey 32i; 

>.  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost             ■            ■             .  231) 

I.  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  at  the  Theatre              .            .  332 

1.  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost                                  .  24.3 

H3.  Transmigration  of  Souls— Letter  from  a  Monkey      ,  335 

"15,  CriticiBm  on  Paradise  Lost            .             .            .  24<J 

49.  Consolation  and  Intrepidity  in  Death              .             .  33!) 

51.  Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost           ,           .           .  255 

i5.  Use  to  be  made  of  Enemies    ....  342 

J7'  Criticieni  on  Paradise  Lost            .             .             .  '2(!2 

61.  Letter  on  Cat-calls— Hiatoiy  of  them              .            .  344 

^^^"   Criticism  on  Paradise  Lost  ,  .270 

'.  Various   advantages   of    the    Spectators— Paper  — 

Printing              .....  347 

i.  Critidsm  on  Paradise  Lost     ....  277 
171.  Hiunoroua  way  of  sorting  Companies — for  Mirth — 

for  useful  Purposes  .            .             .            ,             ,  350 

'.  Bill  of  Mortality  of  trovers             ...  353 
Bl.  Cheerfulness  preferable  (o  Mirth        .           .            .356 

183.  Sir  BogerdcCoverley's  Visit  to  Spring  Gardens  .  360 

"°87-  Motives  to  Cheerfulness          .             .             .             .  3G2 
91,  Heathen  Fables  on  Prayers — Vanity  of  Human 

Wishes 366 

93.  Reflections  on  the  Delights  of  Spring      .           .  370 

97-  On  Composition— Anne  Boleyn's  Letter  .  .  373 
99,  Hypocrisy,  varioia  kinds  of  it  -  .  .376 
13.  Speculations  of  Coflee-house  PoUtieians  on  the  Death 

of  the  King  of  France    ....  370 

(05,  On  the  Improvement  of  Sacred  Music            .  3^2 

SO7.  Character  of  English  Oratory— Use  pf  proper  Gestures  3S5 

109,  Characteristics  of  Taste  .  .  .  .  3»*7 
111 — *il.  Essayson  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination  393 — 430 
'33.  Advantages  of  the  Sexes  associating — History  of  a 

male  Republic    .....  430 

^.  History  of^a  female  Republic              .            .            -  433 
i13.  Female  Dress— Mixture  of  the  Sexes  in  one  Person 
—Female  Equestrians          .... 


439.  The  Manners  of  Courts— The  Spy  and  the  Card 
440  Proceedings  of  the  Infirmary  for  Ill-humoured  Pe 
441.  HappineBS  of  Dcpendance  on  the  Supreme  Beinj 

445.  On  the  new  Stamp— Success  of  the  Spectator 

446.  Degeneracy  of  the  Stage   . 

447-  Influence  of  Custom— Moral  deduced  from  it 

451.  On  defamatory  Publications 

452.  On  News-writ«rsand Readers— SpeciraenofaN 

paper       .  .  .  , 

453.  On  pious  Gratitude — Poem  on  it 

457.  Proposal  for  a  Newspaper  of  WhispeiH     . 

458.  On  true  and  false  Modesty      . 

459.  On  religious  Faith  and  Practice    . 

463.  Weight  of  Wisdom  and  Riches,  a  Vision 

464.  Me£ocrity  of  Fortune  to  be  preferred 

465.  Means  of  strengthening  Faith 

469.  On  Benevolence  in  official  Situations 

470.  Criticism— SpecJDiea  of  various  Readings 

471.  On  Religious  Hope 

475.  On  asking  Advice  in  affairs  of  Love  . 

476.  On  Method  in  Writing  and  Conversatiuii — Charai 

of  Tom  Puzzle  and  Will.  Dry 

477.  Letter  on  Gardening 

481.  Opinions  on  the  Dispute  between  Count  Recht 

and  M.  Mesnager 

482.  Letters  from  Hen-peckt  Hiasbands— from  a  Wo 

married  to  a  Cotqnean 

483.  On  attributing  our  Neighbours'  Misfortones  to  J 


No.  162.    WEDNESDAY,  SEPTEMBEB  3. 

— SepvBlur  ad  imiim 
Qualia  ab  inceplo  processerit,  ct  aibi  ccnibt^t.  Hon. 
Nothing  that  is  not  a  real  crime,  makes  a  mj"!  appear  so 
omteinptible  and  little  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  as  incon- 
■tancy,  eapeciaUy  when  it  regards  religion  or  party.  In 
Bther  of  these  cases,  though  a  man  perhaps  does  but  hia 
duty  in  changing  his  side,  he  not  only  makes  himself  hated 
by  those  he  left,  but  is  seldom  heartily  esteemed  by  those  he 

In  these  great  articles  of  life,  therefore,  a  man's  convic- 
tion ought  tJi  be  very  strong,  and,  if  possible,  ao  well  timed, 
that  worldly  advantages  may  seem  to  have  no  share  in  it, 
or  mankind  will  be  ill-natured  enough  to  think  he  does 
I  not  change  sides  out  of  principle,  but  either  out  of  levity  of 
J  temper  or  prospects  of  mterest.     Converts  and  renegadoea 
I  of  all  kinds  should  take  particular  care  to  let  the  world  see 
■  ftey  act  upon  honourable  motives ;  or  whatever  approbations 
Tiey  may  receive  &om  themselves,  and  applauses  from  those 
rse  with,  they  may  be  very  well  assured  that  they 
irn  of  all  good  men,  and  the  public  marks  of  in- 
my  and  derision. 

IireBolutioD  on  the  achemes  of  life  which  offer  themselves 
r  choice,  and  inconstancy  in  pursuing  them,  are  the 
I  greatest  and  most  universal  causes  of  all  our  disquiet  and  un- 
1  uppiness.  When  ambition  pulls  one  way,  interest  another, 
I  inclmation  a  third,  and  perhaps  reason  contrary  to  alt,  a 
1  mao  is  likely  to  pass  his  time  but  ill  who  has  so  many  dif- 
I  lerent  parties  to  please.  When  the  mind  hovers  among  such 
■  variety  of  allurements,  one  had  better  settle  on  a  way  of 
";  that  is  not  the  very  best  we  might  have  chosen,  than 

P--3W  old  without  determining  our  choice,  and  go  ou 
world,  as  the  greateat  part  of  mankind  do,  before  we 
solved  how  to  live  in  it.  There  is  but  one  method  o 
ouTBelvea  at  rest  in  thia  particular,  and  that  is,  by  i 
stedfastly  to  one  great  end,  as  the  chief  and  nltimat 
all  our  purauita.  If  we  are  firmly  reaolyed  to  Hve  i 
dictates  of  reason,  without  aay  regM'd  to  wealth,  rej 
or  the  like  considerations,  any  more  than  as  they  fat 
our  principal  design,  we  may  go  through  life  with  at 
and  pleasure ;  but  if  we  act  by  aeveral  broken  711 
wUl  not  only  be  TirtuouB,  but  wealthy,  popular,  am 
thing  that  has  a  Talue  set  upon  it  by  the  world,  we  1 
and  die  in  misery  and  repentance. 

One  would  take  more  than  ordinary  care  to  guf 
self  against  this  particular  imperfection,  because  it 
which  our  nature  very  atrcaigly  inclines  ua  to ;  for  i: 
amine  ourselves  thoroughly,  we  shall  find  that  we  are  1 
changeable  beings  in  the  universe.  In  respect  of  ou 
standing,  we  often  embrace  and  reject  the  very  same  0 
whereas  beings  above  and  beneath  us,  Lave  probably 
niona  at  ail,  or  at  least  no  waverings  and  uncertai 
those  they  have.  Our  superiors  are  guided  by  intuii 
our  inferiors  by  instinct.  In  respect  of  our  wills,  wt 
to  Crimea  and  recover  out  of  them,  are  amiable  or  Oi 
the  eyes  of  our  great  Judge,  aiid  pass  our  whole  lii 
fending  and  aaking  pardon.  Ou  the  contrary,  the 
underneath  us  are  not  capable  of  sinning,  nor  those  1 
of  repenting.  The  one  is  out  of  the  possibilities  ( 
and  the  other  fixed  in  an  eternal  course  of  sin  of  an 
course  of  virtue. 

There  is  scarce  a  state  of  life,  or  stage  in  it,  which  ( 
produce  changes  and  revolutions  in  the  mind  of  maj 
schemes  of  thought  in  infancy  are  lost  in  those  of 
these  too  take  a  different  turn  in  manhood,  till  old  a{ 
leads  us  back  into  our  former  infancy.  A  new  title,  o 
eipected  success,  throws  us  out  of  ourselves,  and  in  a 
destroys  our  identity.  A  cloudy  day,  or  a  little  si 
have  as  great  an  influence  ou  many  constitutions,  as  t 
real  blessings  or  misfortuues.  A  dream  varies  oni 
and  changes  our  condition  while  it  lasts  ;  and  every  j 
not  to  mention  health  and  sickness,  and  the  greater  altt 
in  body  and  mind,  makes  us  appear  almost  Jmerent  en 

If  a  man  is  bo  distlnguislied  among  other  beings  by  this  in- 
firmity, what  can  we  think  of  such  as  make  themselyea  re- 
markaHe  for  it  even  among  their  own  species  ?  It  is  a  very 
trifling  character  to  be  one  of  the  most  variable  beings  of  the 
most  variable  kind,  especially  if  we  conaider  that  he  who  ii 
the  great  standard  of  perfection,  has  in  bim  no  shadow  of 
change,  but  is  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever. 

As  this  mutability  of  temper  and  inconsistency  with  our- 
(elves  is  the  greatest  weaknesa  of  human  nature,  so  it  makes 
the  person  who  is  remarkable  for  it,  in  a  very  particular  man- 
ner, more  ridiculous  than  any  other  infirmity  whatsoever,  as  it 
sets  him  in  a  greater  variety  of  foolish  lights,  and  distinguiehes 
him  from  himself  by  an  opposition  of  party-coloured  charac- 
ters. The  most  humorous  character  in  Horace  is  founded 
upon  this  unevenness  of  temper  and  irregularity  of  conduct. 

— Soidus  habebat 
llle  Tigellius  hoc    Cicbui  qui  cogere  posaet, 
Si  peleret  per  amicitiam  pslris,  slque  biiam,  non 
"   '■  "ret;  Si  coliibuisset,  sb  ovo 

■arel,  lo  Biuxhe.  modo  eummiL 
isonttt  qure  churdia  qualuor  ima. 
li  iuit  illi :  Siepe  veliit  qui 
Cunebat  (iigiens  bostem  :  FersEepe  vplut  qui 
Juuonis  sacra  Terret.     Habebat  seepe  diicentoe, 
SrpR  decern  servoa.    Modu,  reges  alque  teu-arclias, 
OamuL  ma^a  loquena.     Modu  ail  mibi  menee  Iripes,  et 
Concba  Ealia  puii,  el  toga,  quai  dcfendere  frigui, 
UuBinvis  crassa,  queat.    Dccics  cenlena  dediisES 
Koic  parco  pauciB  coulento,  qumque  dtebus 
Nil  erst  in  loculis.     Nodes  vigilabat  ad  ipsum 
Mane^  Diem  totam  slenebat.    Nil  fuit  unqaam 
Sic  impar  sibi —  HoR.  Sat.  3,  lib.  i. 

I  Instead  of  tranBlatine  this  passage  in  Horace,  I  shall  en- 
,ain  my  English  reader  with  tlie  description  of  a  parallel 
raeter,  that  is  wonderfully  well  finished,  by  Mr.  Drydeo, 
d  raised  upon  the  same  foundatiou. 

Id  the  Arst  rank  of  \heat  did  Zimri  stand  : 
A  man  bd  varioiia,  that  be  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome. 
Stiff  in  opinion*,  alwaya  in  the  wrong; 
WasererythingbyBUrta,  and  oolhing  long; 

Quidquam  profice 
Usque  ad  mala  cit 
Voce,  modo  hfic  rt 
SBquale  homini 


Was  ChemiBt,  Fiddler,  Statesman,  aod  Buffoon  : 
Than  all  foe  women,  puiniing.  rhytting,  drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  iJiat  died  in  tliinking. 
BLeat  madman,  who  cDuld  every  hour  employ. 
With  aomelhine  new  to  wish,  or  to  erjoy ! 


No.  163.    THTJESDAT,  SEPTEMBER  fl 

curamve  levusso, 
;  Bub  pectore  fiia, 
Emn.  J 

-  -Si  quid  ega  ddjue 
Ecquid  erit  pretii? 

Ikquibieb  aft«r  bappinesa,  and  rules  for  attaioini 
not  ao  necesBary  and  useful  to  mankind  aa  the  arts  o 
lation,  and  supporting'  oneself  under  afflii^tion. 
laoft  we  can  hope  for  in  this  world  is  contentment 
aim  at  anything  higher,  we  shall  meet  with  nothing  l 
and  disappoint  men  ta.  A  man  should  direct  all  hia 
and  endeavours  at  making  himself  easy  now,  ana 

The  truth  of  it  is,  if  all  the  happineas  that  ia  d 
through  the  whole  race  of  mankind  in  this  world  wer 
together,  and  put  into  the  posseasion  of  any  single 
would  not  inake  a  very  happy  being.  Though,  on  1 
trary,  if  the  iniaerieB  of  the  whole  apeciea  were  fis 
ningle  peraon,  they  would  make  a  very  mieerable  one 

I  am  engaged  in  thia  Bubject  by  the  following  letter 
though  Bubflcribed  by  a  fictitious  name,  I  bB-vo  re 
believe  ia  not  imaginary. 

"Mr.    aPECTATOB, 

T  am  one  of  your  diaciules,  and  endeavour  to 
to  your  rules,  which  I  hope  will  incline  you  to  pity  i 
dition ;  I  shall  open  it  to  you  in  a  very  few  words. 
throe  yoara  aiiice  a  gentleman,  whom,  I  am  aure,  yo 
self  would  have  approved,  made  hia  addreaaea  to  m 
had  evorythinu;  to  recommend  him  but  an  estate,  so  1 
rriends,  who  all  of  them  applauded  bis  peraon,  would 
the  Bttki"  of  both  of  ns  favour  his  paaaion.  For  my  ow 
I  rPBignod  myself  up  entirely  to  the  direction  of  the 
know  the  world  much  belter  than  myself,  but  atill  1 
hopCH  thnt  Home  jimcture  or  other  would  make  me  k 
the  man  wlmm,  in  mv  hivirt,  1  pwfi'rred  tu  all  tha 
bciii^  detoriiuned,  if  1  could  nut  have  bim,  to  have 
vine.  About  llinw  motithH  ago  I  rei-tiivcd  a  letti-r  fro 
ncquniutiuff  in<t,  that  by  tbe  death  of  nu  uiioK>  he  bad 
'  Wo  miy  iiy.— Minrfir  t/'f^HKitiilfiM,  iiid  llivinfi  ^npiiar' 
•If.   -but  niX  butli  tofcvtluT.     Ii  liHil  lirvn  bdWr  Ihui  i  lAtmUt 

laderable  estate  left  him.  ivhich  he  said  was  welcome  to  liim 
imon  no  other  account,  biit  us  he  hoped  it  would  remove  all 
difficulties  that  lay  in  the  way  to  our  mutual  hapjiinesa. 
Tou  may  well  suppose,  sir,  with  how  much  joy  I  received 
this  letter,  which  was  followed  by  several  others  filled  with 
those  eiprcsaiona  of  love  and  joy,  which  I  verily  believe  no- 
hody  felt  more  sincerely,  nor  knew  better  how  to  describe, 
than  the  gentleman  I  am  speaking  of.  But,  sir,  how  shall  I 
be  able  to  tell  it  you!  Bt  the  last  week's  post  I  received  a 
letter  &om  an  intimate  inend  of  this  unhappy  gentleman, 
acquainting  me,  that  as  he  had  iuat  settled  his  affairs,  and 
prepudng  for  his  journey,  ne  fell  sick  of  a  fever  and 
It  is  impossible  to  express  to  you  the  distress  I  am 
_XHi  this  occasion.  I  can  only  have  recourse  to  my  devo- 
tions, and  to  the  reading  of  good  books,  for  my  consolation ; 
Hid  aA  I  always  take  a  particular  delight  in  those  fret^uent 
■dvioeB  and  admonitions  which  you  give  the  public,  it  would 
be  a  very  great  piece  of  charity  in  you  to  lend  me  your  as- 
■iatance  in  this  conjuncture.  lf,aft:er  thereading  of  this  letter, 
you  find  yourself  in  a  humour  rather  to  rally  and  ridicule, 
than  to  comfort  me,  I  desire  you  would  throw  it  into  the  fire, 
md  think  no  more  of  it ;  but  if  you  are  touched  with  my 
niafortune,  which  ia  greater  than  I  know  how  to  bear,  your 
eonnselB  may  very  much  support,  and  will  inlinitely  oblige, 
tikeafSicted  Leosoba.." 

A  disappointment  in  love  is  more  hard  to  get  over  thnn 
By  other;  the  passion  itself  so  softens  and  subdues  the 
t,  that  it  disables  it  from  struggling  or  bearing  up  against 
roes  and  distresses  which  befall  it.  The  mind  meets 
irith  other  misfortimes  in  her  whole  strength ;  she  stands 
nllected  within  herself,  and  sustains  the  shock  with  all  the 
e  which  is  natural  to  her ;  but  a  heart  in  love  has  its 
fiinndations  sapped,  and  immediately  sinks  under  the  weight 
of  occidentB  that  are  disagreeable  to  its  favourite  passion. 

In  afflictions,  men  generally  draw  their  consohitions  out 
flf  books  of  morality,  which,  indeed,  are  of  great  use  to  for- 
J  and  strengthen  the  mind  against  the  impressions  of  sor- 
«r.  Monsieur  St.  Evremont,  who  does  not  approve  of  this 
betbod,  recommends  authors  who  are  apt  to  stir  up  mirth  in 
e  mind  of  the  readers,  and  fancies  Don  Quiiote  can  give 
e  relief  to  an  heavy  heart,  than  P  htarch  or  Seneca,  aa  it 


Ik  Kocli  easier  to  divert  grief  than  to  conquer  it.  Thii 
le«8  may  Iiave  its  effects  on  some  tempera.  I  s1ioiil( 
Lave  reeonrse  to  authors  of  a  quite  contrary  kind,  t! 
U8  inBtancea  of  cakmitiea  and  misfortunes,  and  show 
nature  in  its  greatest  distresses. 

If  the  aiRietion  we  groan  under  be  very  heavy,  w 
find  Bome  oonaolation  in  the  society  of  as  great  suffi 
ourselves,  especially  when  we  find  our  companions 
virtue  and  merit.  If  our  offlictiona  are  light,  we  s 
comforted  by  the  comparisons  we  make  between  on 
and  our  fellow-sufferers.  A  loss  at  sea,  a  fit  of  sicki 
the  death  of  a  friend,  are  such  trifles  when  we  considei 
kingdoms  laid  in  ashes,  families  put  to  the  sword,  wi 
shut  up  in  dungeons,  and  the  like  calamities  of  ma 
that  we  are  out  of  countenance  for  our  ovm  weaknest 
sink  under  such  little  strokes  of  fortune. 

Let  the  diaconsolate  Leonora  consider,  that  at  the  vei 
in  ■which  she  languishes  for  the  loss  of  her  deceased  lovef 
are  persona  in  several  parts  of  the  world  just  periahiu 
shipwreck ;  others  crying  out  for  mercy  m  the  terroj 
death-bed  repentance ;  others  lying  under  the  torto 
an  infamous  eKeeution,  or  the  lie  dreadful  calamitiei 
she  wUl  find  her  sorrows  vanish  at  the  appearance  of 
which  are  so  much  greater  and  more  astonishing. 

I  would  further  propose  to  the  consideration  of  my  a4 
disciple,  that  possibly  what  she  now  looks  upon  as  the  j 
eat  misfori:une,  is  not  really  auch  in  itself.     For  m] 

fiart,  I  question  not  but  our  souls,  in  a  separate  atat( 
ook  back  on  their  lives  in  quite  another  view,  thmi 
they  had  of  them  in  the  body  ;  and  that  what  they  noW 
aider  as  mistbrtunes  and  disappointments,  will  very  ofte 
pear  to  have  been  eseapea  and  Dleaainga. 

The  mind  that  hath  any  caat  towards  devotion,  natu 
fliea  to  it  in  its  aJflictioas.  ; 

When  I  was  in  France,  1  heard  a  very  remarkable  4 
of  two  lovers,  which  I  ahall  relate  at  length  in  my  to- 
row's  paper,  not  only  becaiiae  the  circumatancea  of  H 
estraordinarT,  hut  because  it  may  serve  as  an  illustrati* 
all  that  can  he  said  on  thia  last  head,  and  ahow  the  powj 
religion  in  abating  that  particular  anguish  which  seeM 
lie  so  heavy  on  Leonora,  The  story  «aa  told  me  by  ajn 
as  I  travelled  with  him  in  a  stage-coach,     I  shall  give  ii 

nader,  as  well  aa  I  can  wtnember,  in  hU  own  words,  after 
lia?iiig  premiped.  that  if  consolatioDS  mny  be  drawn  from  a 
■nrong  religion  and  a  tnisguided  devotion,  they  cannot  but 
flow  mncb  more  naturally  from  those  which  are  founded  upon 
leaEon,  and  established  in  good  sense. 

No.  164.    FEIDAT,  SEPTEMBEE  7. 

lUaj  quia  et  me.  inquic,  miBerBm,  €l  le  ])erdidit.  Orpheu  ! 
Jamque  vale :  fetoi  ingead  circumdala  noctc, 
Inralidasque  tibi  lendens, lien!  nou  liia,  palmaa.    Vitic, 

C0S8TJ.NTIA.  waa  a  woman  of  estraordinary  wit  and  beauty, 
but  very  unhappy  in  a  father,  who  having  arrived  at  great 
riches  by  his  own  industry,  took  delight  in  nothing  but  his 
taonsy.  Theodosius  waa  the  younger  son  of  a  decayed  family, 
of  great  parts  and  learning,  improved  by  a  genteel  and  vir- 
tuona  education.  "WTien  he  mas  in  the  twentieth  year  of  his 
he  became  acquainted  with  Conatantia,  who  had  not  then 
d  her  fifteenth.  As  be  lived  but  a  few  miles'  distance 
her  father's  house,  he  had  frequent  opportunities  of  see- 
^  her  1  and  by  the  advantages  of  a  good  person,  and  a  pleaa- 
JDg  conversation,  made  such  an  impression  in  her  heart  as  it 
was  imposaible  for  time  to  cSace :  he  was  himself  no  less 
■mitten  with  Constantia.  A  long  acquaintance  made  them 
Htfll  discover  new  beautiea  in  each  other,  and  by  degrees 
ntised  in  them  that  mutual  passion  which  had  an  iunuence  on 
their  following  lives.  It  umortunately  happened,  that  in  the 
didst  of  this  intercoiu^e  of  love  and  friendship  between 
iTheodosius  and  Gunstontia,  there  broke  out  an  irreparable 
quarrel  between  their  parents,  the  one  valuing  himself  too 
Uuch  upon  his  birth,  and  the  other  upon  his  poeaessions. 
!the  &ther  of  Conatontia  was  so  incensed  at  the  father  of 
TheodoaiuB,  that  he  contracted  an  imreaaonable  aversion  to- 
warda  his  son,  ioaomuch  that  he  forbad  him  his  house,  and 
charged  his  daughter  upon  her  duty  never  to  see  him  more. 
In  the  mean  time,  to  break  off  all  communications  betwecji 
^^  two  lovers,  who  he  knew  entertained  secret  hopes  of  some 
&vourable  opportunity  that  should  bring  them  together,  he 
found  out  a  young  gentleman  of  a  good  fortune  and  an  agree- 
•ble  person,  whom  he  pitched  upon  as  a  husband  for  hia 
daughter.     He  soon  concerted  this  affair  so  well,  that  he  told 

Constantia  it  was  his  design  to  marry  her  to  such  a 
man,  and  that  her  wedding  should  be  celebrated  oa 
day.  Constantia,  who  was  OTerawed  with  the  authority 
her  father,  and  unable  to  object  anything  aguinst  ao  advan- 
tageous a  match,  receiTed  the  propoaal  with  a  profound 
silence,  which  her  father  commended  in  ber,  as  the  most  de- 
cent manner  of  a  virgin's  giving  her  consent  to  an  OTerture 
of  that  kind.  The  noise  of  this  intended  marriage  aoon 
reached  TheodoBius,  who  after  a  long  tumult  of  paasiona, 
which  naturolly  rise  in  a  lover's  heart  on  such  an  occasion, 
writ  the  following  letter  to  ConHtautia. 



"  The  thought  of  my  Coastantia,  which  for  some  years 
been  my  only  happinesa,  is  now  become  a  greater  torment 
me  than  I  am  able  to  bear.  Must  I  then  live  to  see  you 
another's  ?  The  streams,  the  fields,  and  meadows,  where  we 
have  so  often  talked  together,  grow  painful  to  me ;  life  itself 
is  become  a  burden.  May  you  long  be  happy  in  the  world, 
but  forget  that  there  was  ever  such  a  man  in  it  as 

"  TnEODOsira.' 

This  letter  was  conveyed  to  Constantia  that  very  e  ___ 

who  fainted  at  the  reading  of  it ;  and  the  next  morning  sb^ 
was  much  more  alarmed  by  two  or  three  messengers,  tiaib 
came  to  her  father's  house  one  after  another,  to  inquire  if 
thev  had  heard  anything  of  Theodosins,  who  it  seems  had 
left'  his  chamber  about  midnight,  and  could  nowhere  be 
found.  The  deep  melancholy  which  had  hung  upon  his  mind 
some  time  before,  made  them  apprehend  the  worst  that  could 
befall  him.  Constantia,  who  knew  that  nothing  but  the  re- 
port of  her  marriage  could  bare  driven  him  to  such  extremi- 
ties, was  not  to  be  comfort-ed :  she  now  accused  herself  for 
having  so  lamely  given  an  ear  to  the  proposal  of  a  husband, 
and  looked  upon  the  new  lover  as  the  murderer  of  Theodosiua : 
in  short,  she  resolved  to  suffer  the  utmost  eflects  of  her 
father's  displeasure,  rather  than  comply  with  a  marriage 
which  appeared  to  her  so  tiill  of  giult  and  horror.  The  father 
seeing  himself  entirely  rid  of  Theodosiua,  and  likely  to  keep 
a  considerable  portion  in  bis  family,  was  not  very  much  con- 
cerned at  the  obstinate  refusal  of  his  daughter ;  and  did  not 
find  it  \cTv  difficult  to  excuse  himself  upon  that  account  to 
his  intended  son-in-law,  who  had  all  sJong  regarded  thm,. 
alliance  rather  as  a  marriage  of  convenience  than  of  Ion 

Constantia  had  now  no  relief  but  in  her  devotions  and  exer- 
cises of  religion,  to  which  lier  afflictions  had  so  entirely 
luhjected  her  mind,  that  after  some  years  had  abated  the 
violence  of  her  soitowb,  and  settled  her  thoughts  in  a  kind 
of  tranquillity,  she  resolved  to  pass  the  remainder  of  her  daya 
ID  a  convent.  Her  father  was  not  displeased  with  a  resolu- 
tion which  would  save  money  in  his  family,  and  readily  coni- 
piied  with  his  daughter's  intentions.  Accordingly,  in  the 
twenty-fifth  year  of  her  age,  while  her  beauty  was  yet  in  all 
its  height  and  bloom,  he  carried  her  to  a  neighbouring  city, 
in  order  to  look  out  a  sisterhood  of  nuns  among  whom  to 
place  his  daughter.  There  was  in  this  place  a  lather  of  a 
convent  who  waa  very  much  renowned  for  his  pietv  and  ex- 
emplary life ;  and  as  it  is  usual  in  the  Bomish  Church  for 
those  who  are  under  any  great  affliction,  or  trouble  of  mind, 
lo  apply  themselves  to  the  most  eminent  confessors  for  par- 
don and  consolation,  our  beautiful  votary  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  confessing  herself  to  this  celebrated  father. 

We  must  now  return  to  Theodosius,  who  the  very  mom- 
bg  that  the  above-mentioned  imjuiries  had  been  made  after 
him,  arrived  at  a  rehgioua  bouse  in  the  city,  where  now  Con- 
Elantia  resided ;  and  desiring  that  secrecy  and  concealment  of 
the  fathers  of  the  convent,  which  is  very  usual  upon  any  ex- 
traordinary occasion,  he  made  himself  one  of  the  order,  with 
a  private  vow  never  to  inquire  after  Constantia ;  whom  he 
looked  upon  as  given  away  to  his  rival  upon  the  day  on  which, 
f  KCording  to  oommon  fanie,  their  marriage  was  to  have  been 
I  Mlemnized.     Having  in  his  youth  made  a  good  progress  in 
([Jeaming,  that  he  might  dedicate  himself  more  entirely  to  re- 
le  entered  into  holy  orders,  and  in  a  few  years  be- 
e  renowned  for  his  sanctity  of  life,  and  those  pious  sen- 
its  which  be  inspired  into  all  who  conversed  with  him. 
8  this  holy  man  to  whom  Constantia  had  determined  to 
l>  ^tply  herself  in  confession,  though  neither  she,  nor  any  other 
f  bendes  the  prior  of  the  convent,  knew  anything  of  his  name 
IT  ikmily.     The  gay,  the  amiable  Theodosius  had  now  taken 
.  Vpoil  him  the  name  of  father  Francis ;  and  was  so  far  con- 
enJed  in  a  long  beard,  a  shaven  head,  and  a  religious  habit, 
vaa  impossible  to  discover  the  man  of  the  world  in 
rable  conventual. 

I  was  one  morning  shut  up  in  his  confessional,  C 
I,  kneeling  by  him,  opened  the  state  of  her  soul  to  him; 


Kud  after  having  given  him  the  history  of  a  life  full  o 
cenee,  she  burst  out  into  tears,  and  entered  upon  that 
her  atory,  in  which  be  himself  liad  so  great  a  share, 
behaviour  (says  she)  has,  I  fear,  been  the  death  of 
who  had  no  other  fault  but  that  of  loving  me  too 
Heaven  only  knows  how  dear  he  was  to  me  whilst  he 
and  how  bitter  the  rememhranee  of  him  has  been  to  m 
his  death."  She  here  paused,  and  lifted  up  her  eye 
streamed  with  tears,  towards  the  father ;  who  was  so 
with  the  Benae  of  her  Borrows,  that  he  could  only  cor 
his  voice,  which  was  broke  with  sighs  and  sobbings,  so 
to  bid  her  proceed.  She  followed  his  directions,  an 
flood  of  tears  poured  out  her  heart  before  him.  The 
could  not  forbear  weeping  aloud,  insomuch  that  in  tl 
nies  of  his  grief  the  seat  snook  under  him..  Constant! 
thought  the  good  man.  was  thus  moved  by  his  comf 
towards  her,  and  by  the  horror  of  her  guilt,  proceede 
tlie  utmost  contrition  to  acquaint  him  with  that  vow  i 
ginity  in  which  she  was  going  to  engage  herself,  as  th 
per  atonement  for  her  sins,  and  the  only  aacriflce  she 
make  to  the  memory  of  Theodosius.  The  father,  who  I 
time  had  pretty  well  composed  himself,  burst  out  agi 
tears  upon  hearing  that  name  to  which  he  had  been  m 
disused,  and  upon  receiving  this  instance  of  an  nnpari 
flifelity  from  one  who  he  thought  had  several  years 
ftivTO  "herself  up  to  the  possession  of  another.  Amid 
interruptions  or  his  sorrow,  seeing  his  penitent  overwh 
with  grief,  he  was  only  able  to  bid  her  from  time  to  til 
comforted— To  tell  her  that  her  sina  were  forgiven 
That  her  guilt  was  not  so  great  as  she  apprehended— 
■he  shoulif  not  suffer  herself  to  be  aiflicted  above  mei 
After  which  he  recovered  himself  enough  to  give  her  tl 
Bolutiou  in  form  ;  directing  her  at  the  same  time  to  rep 
him  again  the  next  day,  that  he  might  encourage  n 

'  tho  pious  nisotutiona  she  had  taken,  and  gii'e  her  sni 
exhortations  for  her  behaviour  in  it.  Consttuitia  retiree 
the  next  morning  renewed  her  applications.  Theod> 
having  manned  his  soul  with  pro^>cr  thoughts  and  reflect 
exerted  himaelf  on  this  occasion  in  the  best  nianuer  he  c 
to  niiiinate  his  penitent  in  the  course  of  life  she  was  enfe 
upon,  and  wear  tmt  of  her  mind  those  groundleea  fean 

I  Apprehensions  which  had  taken  possession  of  it ;  eoaclll 

with  a  promiee  to  her,  that  he  would  Irom  time  to  time  con- 
tinue hia  adBEonition  when  she  should  have  taken  upon  her 
the  holyyeQ.  "  The  rules  of  our  respective  orders  (says  he) 
will  not  permit  that  I  should  see  you ;  but  you  may  waure 
yourself  not  only  of  having  a  place  in  my  prayers,  but  of  re- 
eeiring  such  frequent  instructionB  as  I  can  convey  to  you  by 
letters.  Go  on  cheerfully  in  the  glorious  course  you  have 
undertaken,  and  you  will  quickly  find  such  a  peace  and  satis- 

faction ii 


ind,  which^  it  i 

1  the  power  of  the 

world  to  give 

Constantia'a  heart  was  so  elevated  with  the  discourse  of 
Either  TVancis,  that  the  very  next  day  she  entered  upon  her 
TOW.  As  soon  as  the  solemnities  of  her  reception  were  over, 
she  retired,  as  it  is  usual,  with  the  abbess  into  her  own  apart- 

The  abbeaa  had  been  informed  the  nieht  before  of  all  that 
had  passed  between  her  noviciate  and  father  Francis  :  from 
whom  she  now  delivered  to  her  the  following  letter. 

"  Aa  the  flrst-fruitB  of  those  joys  and  consolations  which 
L^ou  may  eipect  from  the  life  you  are  now  engaged  in,  I  must 
•"— sqnaint  you  that  Theodosiiis,  whose  death  sits  so  heavy  up- 
U  your  thougbta,  is  still  alive ;  and  that  the  father  to  whom 
u  have  confeaaed  yourself,  was  once  that  Theodosius  whom 
u  BO  much  lament.  The  love  which  we  have  had  for  one  an- 
r  will  make  ua  more  happyiuttsdisappointment,  than  it 
1  have  done  in  its  success.  Providence  baa  disposed  of 
p  our  advantage,  though  not  according  to  our  wishes. 
aider  your  Theodosius  BtUl  as  dead,  hut  assure  yourself 
me  who  will  not  cease  to  pray  for  you  in  father 

"  Fhascis." 

^  Constantia  saw  that  the  hand-writing  agreed  with  the  eon- 
IjteDtB  of  the  letter;  and  upon  reflecting  on  the  voice  of  the 
1  person,  the  behaviour,  and,  above  all,  the  extreme  sorrow  of 
L  the  &ther  during  her  confession,  she  discovered  Theodosius 
'  iTj  particmar.  After  having  wept  with  tears  of  joy, 
i  enough,  (says  she,)  Theodosius  is  etOl  in  being ;  I 
1  live  with  comfort,  and  die  in  peace." 

e  letters  which  the  father  sent  her  afterwards  are  yet 
int  in  the  nunnery  where  she  resided,  and  are  often  read 
'  It  Ehbuld  be  M. 


Addison's  ■woeKt. 

to  the  young  religious,  iu  order  to  inspire  them  with  g 
Bolutiona  and  sentimenta  of  virtue.  It  so  hoppeiM 
after  Constontia  had  lived  about  ten  years  in  tne  clc 
violent  fever  broke  out  in  the  place,  which  swept  awa 
rjultitudes,  and  among  others,  Theodosius.  tipon  his 
hed  he  sent  his  benediction  in  a  veir  moving  manner  1 
atautia ;  who  at  that  time  was  herself  bo  far  gone  in  tl; 
fiital  distemper,  that  she  lay  delirious.  TJpon  the  i; 
which  generally  precedes  death  in  sictneaBes  of  this  i 
the  ahoesa,  finding  that  the  physicians  had  given  he 
told  her  that  Theodosius  was  just  gone  before  her,  ai 
he  had  sent  her  his  benediction  in  nia  last  moments, 
atantia  received  it  with  pleasure  :  "And  now,  (saya  a 
I  do  not  ask  anything  improper,  let  me  be  buried  by 
dosiuB.  My  vow  reaches  no  farther  than  the  grave. 
I  ask  is,  I  hope,  no  violation  of  it."  She  died  aoon 
and  was  interred  according  to  her  request. 

Their  toinba  are  still  to  be  seen,  with  a  short  Latin  in 
tion  over  them  to  the  following  purpose  : 

Here  lie  the  bodiea  of  father  Francis  and  sister  Cons 
They  wore  lovely  in  their  lives,  and  in  their  deaths  wei 

Kg.  165.     SATUEDAT,  SEPTEl^IBEK  8 

I  HATE  often  wished,  that  as  in  our  constitution  the* 
several  persona  whoae  business  it  is  to  watch  over  our 
our  liberties,  and  commerce,  certain  men  might  bt 
apart  aa  superintendents  of  our  language,  to  hinder 
words  of  a  foreign  coin  from  pasaiug  among  us ;  an 
particular  to  prohibit  any  French  phrases  from  bo 
ing  current  in  thia  kingdom,  when  those  of  our  own  al 
are  altogether  as  valu^lo.  The  present  war  has  ao  i 
terated  our  tongue  with  strange  words,  that  it  would  be 
ono  of  our  great-gi'andfathers  to  know  wlui 

'  When  IhB  reador  basfill  the  palboa  of  Ihis  little  melwiplioly 

av  be  worth  hie  wMJc  lo  go  over  it  Bgnin,  uid  Bse  if  it  tw  not  lold  t 

out  in  Uie  purebt  EnBliah. 

posterity  have  been  doing,  were  he  to  read  their  eiploita  ia  a 
modern  newspaper.  Our  warriors  are  very  iiidustrioua  iii 
propagating  the  French  language,  at  the  same  time  that  they 
are  so  gloriously  auccessful  in  beating  down  their  power. 
Our  soldiers  are  men  of  strong  heads  for  action,  and  perform 
such  feats  as  they  are  not  able  to  express.  They  want  words 
ia  their,  own  tongue  to  tell  us  what  it  is  they  ocuicre,  and 
therefore  send  ua  over  accounts  of  their  pertbrmances  in  a 
jargon  of  phrases,  which  they  learn  among  their  conquered 
tnemiea.  They  ought  however  to  be  provided  with  secreta- 
ries, and  assisted  by  our  foreign  ministerB,  to  tell  their  story 
fiir  them  in  plain  Imghsh,  and  to  let  us  know  in  our  mother- 
tongue  what  it  is  our  brave  countrymen  are  about.  The 
French  would  indeed  be  in  the  right  to  publish  the  news  of 
Ihe  present  war  in  English  phrases,  and  make  their  caropaiens 
imintelligible.  Their  people  might  flatter  themselves  that 
things  are  not  so  bad  as  they  really  are,  were  they  thus  paUi- 
sted  with  foreign  terms,  and  thrown  into  shades  and  obscur- 
ity ;  but  the  English  cannot  be  too  clear  in  their  narrative 
of  those  actions,  which  have  raised  their  country  to  a  higher 
pitch  of  glory  than  it  ever  yet  arrived  at,  and  which  will  be 
still  the  more  admired,  the  better  they  are  explained. 

For  my  part,  by  that  time  a  siege  is  carried  on  two  or 
three  days,  I  am  altogether  lost  and  bewildered  in  it,  and 
meet  with  so  many  inexplicable  diiSculties,  that  I  scarce  know 
wliich  Bide'has  the  better  of  it,  till  I  am  informed  by  the 
tower  g^uDs  that  the  place  is  surrendered.  I  do  indeed  make 
«ome  allowances  for  this  pari;  of  the  war,  fortifications  having 
been  foreign  inventions,  and  upon  that  account  abounding 
in  foreign  terms.  But  when  we  have  won  battles  which  may 
be  described  in  our  own  language,  why  are  our  papers  EDed 
with  so  many  unintelligible  exploits,  and  the  French  obhged 
to  lend  us  a  part;  of  their  tongue  before  we  can  know  how  they 
ire  conquered  ?  They  must  be  made  accessorj-  to  their  own 
disgrace,  aa  the  Britons  were  formerly  bo  artificially  wrought 
in  the  curtain  of  the  Eoman  theatre,  that  they  seemed  to 
draw  it  up,  in  order  to  give  the  spectators  an  opportunity  of 
I  fceiii^  tbeir  own  defeat  celebrated  upon  the  stage ;  for  bo 
'.  Dryden  has  tranaiated  that  verse  m  Virgil, 

(i  lollant  anlsa.  Brita 

id  ahow  the  tiiilmph  lliat  iJieir 


The  liistoriea  of  all  our  former  wara  are  transniitte 
'  hi  our  vernacular  idiom,  to  use  the  phrase  of  a  great  n 
caitic,  I  do  not  find  in  any  of  our  chronicles,  that  E 
the  Third  ever  reconnoitred  the  enemy,  thoneh  he  ofti 
covered  the  posture  of  the  French,  and  aa  onen  vonq 
them  in  battle.  The  Black  Prince  passed  many  a  rivei 
out  the  help  of  pontoons,  and  filled  a  ditch  with  fagg 
BuccesBfully  as  the  generals  of  our  time  do  it  with  fin 
Our  commandera  loae  haif  their  praise,  and  our  peopi 
their  joy,  by  m.eanB  of  those  hard  words  and  dark  eipre 
in  which  our  newspapers  do  so  much  abound.  I  hav> 
many  a  prudent  citizen,  after  having  read  every  artit 
quire  of  his  next  neiglibour  what  newa  the  maU  had  hr< 

I  remember  in  that  remarlcable  year  when  our  cc 
was  delivered  from  the  greatest  fears  and  appreher 
and  raised  to  the  greatest  height  of  gladness  it  had  evi 
since  it  was  a  nation,  I  mean  the  year  of  Blenheim, 
the  copy  of  a  letter  sent  me  out  of  the  country,  whic 
written  from  a  young  gentleman  in  the  army  to  his  i 
a  man  of  good  estate  and  plain  sense :  as  the  lett« 
very  modishly  chequered  with  this  modem  military  eloqi 
I  shall  preaent  my  reader  with  a  copy  of  it. 

"  SlE. 

Upon  the  junction  of  the  Prench  and  Bavarian  a 
they  took  post  behind  a  great  morass  which  they  ftioug] 
practicable.  Our  general  the  nest  day  sent  a  party  of 
to  reconnoitre  them  irom  a  httle  hauteur,  at  about  a 
ter  of  an  hour's  distance  from  the  army,  who  returned 
to  camp  imobBerved  through  several  defiles,  in  one'  of  ' 
they  met  with  a  party  of  French  that  had  been  marau 
and  made  them  all  prisoners  at  discretion.  TJie  day  sj 
drum  arrived  at  our  camp,  with  a  message  which  he  i 
communicate  to  none  but  the  general ;  he  was  followed 
trumpet,  who  they  say  behaved  liimaelf  very  saucily,  n 
message  from  the  Duke  of  Bavaria.  The  next  morninj 
army,  being  divided  into  two  corps,  made  a  movemen 
wards  the  eueraj^ ;  you  will  hear  in  the  public  prints  ho 
treated  them,  with  the  other  circumstances  of  that  glo 
day.  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  in  the  regimenff 
pushed  the  Gens  d' Arms.  Several  French  battalJona, 
Bome  say  were  a  Corps  de  Beserve,  made  a  show  of  resist) 

but  it  only  proved  a  gaaconaiie,  for  upon  our  preparing  to  fill 
up  a  little  foBse.  in  order  to  attack  tfiem,  they  beat  the  Cha- 
made,  and  sent  us  Charte  Blauclie.  Their  commandant, 
with  a  great  many  other  general  officers,  and  troops  without 
Domher,  are  made  priBoners  of  war,  and  will,  I  believe,  give 
jou  ft  visit  in  England,  the  cartel  not  being  yet  settled.     Not 

Juestioniiig  but  these  particulara  will  be  very  welcome  to  you, 
congratulate  you  upon  them,  and  am  your  most  dutiful 
son,"'  &c. 

The  father  of  the  young  gentleman  upon  the  perusal  of 
the  letter  found  it  contained  great  news,  but  could  not  guesa 
vhat  it  was.  He  immediately  communicated  it  to  the  curate 
of  the  parish,  who  upon  the  reading  of  it,  being  veied  to  see 
Wiything  he  could  not  understand,  fell  into  a  kind  of  passion, 
juul  told  him,  that  bis  son  had  sent  him  a  letter  that  wad 
Beither  fish,  fleah,  nor  good  red  herring.  I  wish,  said  he, 
Ote  captain  may  be  compos  mentis,  be  talks  of  a  saucy  trum- 
«t,  and  a  drum  that  carries  messages ;  then  who  is  this 
Charte  Blanche  ?  be  must  either  banter  ua,  op  he  is  out  of 
aenaea.  The  father,  who  always  looked  upon  the  curate 
a  learned  man,  began  to  trot  inwardly  at  bis  son's  usage, 
1  producing  a  letter  which  he  had  written  to  him  about 
«€  posts  afore.  You  see  here,  says  he,  when  be  writes  for 
DOBey,  he  knows  how  to  speak  intelligibly  enough ;  thei'e 
'  no  man  in  England  can  espreas  himself  clearer,  when  he 
uita  a.  new  furniture  for  his  horse.  In  short,  the  old  man 
I  puzzled  upon  the  point,  that  it  might  have  fared  ill 
Vith  his  son,  had  he  not  seen  all  the  prints  about  three  days 
Itfter  filled  with  the  same  terms  of  art,  and  that  Charles  oid.y 
writ  like  other  men. 


—Quod  nee  Jovia  [tit,  nee  ignis, 
Heo  potent  feirum,  neo  edax  abolere  velualas.  Ovid. 
.Akistotle  tells  US,  that  the  world  is  a  copy  or  transcript 
r  tliose  ideas  which  are  in  the  mind  of  the  Firat  Being,  and 
'  It  ia  remarkaljle  thm  moat  of  the  French  lermii  inserted  in  this  latter, 
lorder  (oexpose  the  aSeciation  of  the  writer,  are  now  grown  su  fftmiHar 
B,  thBl  few  men  would  think  of  expressing  themaelvcB  on  lb«  lika 
in  *jij  other. 


tbose  ideu  wbich  are  in  the  mind  of  man  are  a  tn 
of  the  world ;  to  this  we  maj  add,  that  words  are  tl 
Bcript  of  those  ideas  which  arc  in  the  mind  of  nu 
that  writing  or  printing  ia  thetranacript  of  words, 

Aa  the  Supreme  Being  has  expressed,  and  as  i 
printed,  hia  ideas  in  the  creation,  men  express  their : 
bookii,  which  by  this  great  invention  of  these  latter  ag 
Inat  as  long  as  the  sun  and  moon,  and  perish  only  in 
ueral  wrecE  of  nature.  Thus  Cowley  in  bis  poem  on  thi 
rection,  mentioning  the  destruction  of  the  imiyeree.  ht 
admirable  lines. 

lyeree.  m 


Now  all  the  vide  extended  alcj, 

And  nil  th'  harmonioiu  worlds  on  higlv  I 

And  Virgil's  sacred  work  shall  die. 

There  is  no  other  method  of  fixing  thoae  thoughti 

nrise  and  disappear  in  the  mind  of  man,  and  transi 

them  to  the  last  periods  of  time ;  no  other  method  of 

a  permanency  to  our  ideas,  and  preserving  the  knowL 

any  particiilar  person,  when  his  body  is  mixed  with  tt 

mou  mB«B  of  matter,  and  his  soul  retired  into  the  w 

spirits.     Books  are  the  legacies  that  a  great  genius  le 

mankind,  which  are  delivered  down  from  generation 

neration,  as  presents  to  the  posterity  of  those  who  i 


All  other  arts  of  perpetuating  our  ideas  continue 
short  time :  statues  can  last  but  a  few  thousands  of 
edifices  fewer,  and  colonra  still  fewer  than  edifices,  it 
Angelo,  Foutana,  and  Eaphael,  will  hereafter  be  what  F 
Vitruvi'-*,  and  Apelles  are  at  present ;  the  names  of 
statuaries,  architects,  and  painters,  whose  works  aM 
Tim  several  arts  are  expressed  in  mouldering  mat 
nature  sinks  \uidor  them,  and  is  not  able  to  support  th< 
which  are  imprest  upon  it. 

The  ciiTuniilance  which  pives  authors  an  advant^e 
oU  thi'se  great  Diustem,  in  this,  that  they  can  multiply 
ori^uals  i  or  rather,  caii  make  copies  of  their  woi 
what  number  tlicy  pleaup,  which  shall  l>e  as  valuable 
originals tb em selvi'N.  Thin  givcsaKreat  autborsotuethii 
a  pronjM'ct  of  eleriiity,  but  nt  the  same  time  deprives  I 
those  otlii-r  advailtnges  which  nrtistn  meet  with.  The 
finds  Rivaler  relurmt  in  prolit,  a*  the  author  in  fame.  ' 
ftU  im'Btiuiable  price  would  ii  Viruit  or  a  Mumer,  a  Cia 

No.  its.  1 

M  Aristotle,  bear,  were  their  works  like  a  atatue,  a  building, 
ar  a  picture,  to  be  confined  only  in  one  place,  and  made  the 
property  of  a  aingle  person. 

If  writings  are  thus  durable,  and  may  pass  from  age  to  age 

throughout  the  whole  course  of  time,  how  careful  should  an 

•athor  be  of  committing  anything  to  print  that  may  corrupt 

praterity,  and  poison  the  minda  of  men  with  vice  and  error ! 

,    writers  of  great  talents,  who  employ  their  parts  in  propa- 

gatiiig  immorality,  and  seasoning  vicious   sentiments  with 

I  lit  and  humour,  are  to  he  looked  upon  as  the  pest  of  society 

Itod  tbe  enemies  of  mankind :  they  leave  books  behind  them 

Wu  it  is  said  of  those  who  die  in  distempers  which  breed  an  il!- 

nill  towards  their  own  species)  to  scatter  infection  and  destroy 

posterity.     They  act  the  counter-parts  of  a  Confucius 

Socrates ;  and  seem  to  have  been  sent  into  the  world  to 

ive  human  nature,  and  sink  it  into  the   condition  of 


I  have  seen  some  Eoman  Catholic  authors,  who  tell  ua, 
that  vicious  writers  continue  in  purgatory  so  long  as  the  in- 
fluence of  their  writings  continues  upon  posterity :  for  pur- 
gatory, say  they,  is  nothing  else  but  a  cleansing  us  of  our 
I  dns,  wbicn  cannot  be  said  to  be  done  away,  so  long  as  they 
continue  to  operate  and  corrupt  mankind.  The  vicious 
uitbor,  say  they,  sins  after  death,  and  so  long  as  he  continues 
lo  ein,  so  long  must  he  expect  to  be  punished.  Though  the 
Boman  Catholic  notion  of  pulsatory  be  indeed  very  ridicu- 
lous, one  cannot  but  think  that  if  the  eoul  after  death  has  any 
knowledge  of  what  passes  in  this  world,  that  of  an  immoral 
writer  would  receive  much  more  regret  irom  the  sense  of 
corrupting,  than  satisfaction  from  tbe  thought  of  pleasing, 
his  surviving  admirers. 

To  take  off  from  the  severity  of  this  speculation,  I  sliall 

conclude  this  paper  with  a  stovj  of  an  atheistical  author,  who, 

at  a  time  when  he  lay  dangerously  sick,  and  had  desired  the 

assistance  of  a  neighbouring  curate,  confessed  to  him  with  great 

contrition,  that  nothing  sat  more  beavy  at  bis  heart  than  the 

^^jense  of  his  having  seduced  the  age  by  bis  writings,  and  that 

^K^ir  evil  influence  was  likely  to  continue  even  after  his  death. 

^HOte  curate,  upon  further  eiamination,  finding  the  penitent  in 

^Blbe  utmost  agonies  of  despair,  and  being  hunself  a  man  of 

^'karning,  told  him,  that  he  hoped  bis  case  was  not  so  desperate 

'       U  he  apprehended,  since  he  found  that  he  was  so  very  senai- 

ble  of  htB  fault,  and  ao  sincerely  repented  of  it.     Tl 
tent  still  urged  the  evil  tendency  of  hia  book  to  Bub' 
religion,  and  the  little  groiuid  of  hope  there  could  be 
whose  writingB  would  continue  to  do  mischief  when  h 
was  laid  in  ashes,    The  curate,  finding  no  other  way  t 
fort  him,  told  him,  that  he  did  well  in  being  afflicted 
evil  design  with  which  he  published  his  book ;  but  t 
ought  to  he  very  thankful  that  there  waa  no  danger  of 
ing  any  hurt.     That  his  cause  was  so  very  bad,  and  hii 
ments  so  weak,  that  be  did  not  apprehend  any  ill  effecl 
In  abort,  that  he  might  rest  sBtiaued  that  his  book  ci 
no  more  mischief  after  his  death,  than  it  had  done  wt 
was  living,     To  which  he  added,  for  his  further  aatisi 
that  ho  did  not  believe  any  besides  hia  particular  &ien 
acquaintance  had  ever  been  at  the  paina  of  reading  it,  o 
anybody  after  hia  death  would  ever  inquire  after  it. 
dying  man  had  atUl  so  much  of  the  frailty  of  an  author  i 
aa  to  be  cut  to  the  heart  with  these  consolationa ;  and,  w 
anawering  the  good  man,  asked  his  frienda  about  him  ( 
peeviahneas  that  is  natural  to  a  aick  pereon)  where  tbi 
picked  up  such  a  blockhead  P  and,  whether  they  thoug] 
a  proper  person  to  attend  one  in  his  condition  ?     The  ■ 
finding  that  the  author  did  not  expect  to  be  dealt  wit 
real  and  sincere  penitent,  but  aa  a  penitent  of  impoi 
after  a  abort  admonition,  withdrew ;  not  questioning  1 
should  bo  again  sent  for  if  the  sickness  grew  desperate. 
author  however  recovered,  and  haa  since  written  two  at 
other  tracts,  with  the  same  spirit,  and,  very  luckily  £ 
poor  sonl,  with  the  some  success. 

No.  160.    THUHSDAT,  SEPTEMBER  13.  ' 

Sic  til*  (i«il :  IVcil"  omiiw  iwrfttrre  >d  pMi : 
OuM  (juibui  onl  ounquo  tiiin.  his  scse  dcden, 

Kotum  olwequi  ntudiii ;  •dYorf *-- 

Munt^uaan  lua'punrii*  sr  >liu. 
8iiw  inviilia  iiitt>iiiiui  1i 

Mar  if  vubj(^'t  to  iitiniitu'ntMt'  [>tuns  and  sorrows  If 
rery  condition  of  hutnaiiity,  and  yi't,  »t  if  nature  haj 
wwn  evilg  enough  in  lift-,  we  atv  isjuttmially  addiu)!  gii 
griflf,  and  ag^vatiu^  the  ivuiuion  valauuty  by  our  i 

ITo.  tn. 


bestment  of  one  another.  Every  man's  natural  weight  of 
affliction  is  still  made  more  heavy  by  the  envy,  malice, 
treachery,  or  injuBtice  of  his  neighbour.  At  the  same  time 
that  the  storm  beats  on  the  whole  epeciea,  we  are  falling  foul 
iqion  one  another. 

Half  the  misery  of  liuman  life  might  he  extingtuBhed, 
would  men  aJleviiite  the  general  curse  they  lie  under,  by 
nutiuil  offices  of  compaBsion,  benevolence,  and  humanity. 
There  is  nothing,  therefore,  which  we  ought  more  to  en- 
courage in  ourselves  and  othoTB,  than  the  dispceition  of  mind 
which  in  our  language  goes  under  the  title  of  good-nature, 
and  which  I  ehall  choose  for  the  subject  of  this  day's  specu- 

Good-nature  is  more  agreeable  in  conversation  than  wit, 
ind  eivea  a,  certain  air  to  the  countenance  which  is  more 
Wiable  than  beauty.  It  shows  virtue  in  the  fairest  light, 
fakes  off  in  some  measure  Irom  the  deformity  of  vice,  and 
a  folly  and  impertinence  supportable. 
There  ia  no  society  or  conversation  to  be  ke^t  up  in  the 
Ihirld  without  good-nature,  or  something  which  must  bear 
ie  appearance,  and  supply  its  place.  For  this  reason  man- 
kind have  been  forced  to  invent  a  kind  of  artificial  humanity, 
vhidi  is  what  we  eipress  by  the  word  good-breeding.  For 
line  thoroughly  the  idea  of  what  we  call  so,  we 
1  find  it  to  he  nothing  else  but  an  imitation  and  mimicry 
tf  good-nature,  or,  in  other  terms,  affability,  complaisance, 
ttd  eaeiness  of  temper  reduced  into  an  art. 
These  exterior  shows  and  appearances  of  humanity  render 
^^  man  wonderfully  popular  and  beloved,  when  they  are 
bunded  upon  a  real  good-nature ;  but  vrithout  it  are  like 
liypocriay  in  religion,  or  a  bare  form  of  holiness,  which  when 
^^t  IB  discovered  makes  a  rrnyn  more  detestable  than  professed 

Good-nature  is  generally  bom  with  us ;  health,  prosperity, 
ttid  kind  treatment  from  the  world  are  great  cherishers  of  it 
irhere  thCT  find  it,  but  nothing  is  cafjable  of  forcing  it  up, 
trhere  it  does  not  grow  of  itself.  It  is  one  of  the  blesHings 
rf  a  happy  constitution,  which  education  may  improve,  hut 

Xenophon,  in  the  life  of  his  imaginary  prince,  whom  he 
leacribes  as  a  pattern  for  real  ones,  is  always  celebrating  the 
^^ihilanthropy  or)  good-nature  of  his  hero,  which  he  tells  u" 

I  he  brought  into  the  world  with  him,  and  givea  tnan^  n 

able  instances  of  it  in  his  childhood,  aa  well  as  in  •■ 
Bpyeral  parts  of  hia  life.  Nay,  on  his  death-bed,  he  dei 
liim  as  Deing  pleased,  that  while  his  soul  returned  i 
who  made  it,  nia  body  should  incorporate  with  the 
mother  of  all  things,  and  by  that  means  become  benefl 
mankind.  Pot  which  reason  be  gives  his  sons  a  posit 
der  not  to  enshrine  it  in  gold  or  silver,  but  to  lay  it 
earth  as  soon  as  the  life  was  gone  out  of  it. 

An  instance  of  such  an  overflowing  of  humanity,  bi 
exuberant  love  to  mankind,  could  not  have  entered  in 
imagination  of  a  writer,  who  had  not  a  soul  filled  with 
ideas,  and  a  genera!  benevolence  to  mankind. 

Iq  that  celebrated  passage  of  Sallust,  where  Ctesa 
Cato  ore  placed  in  such  beautiful,  but  opposite  1 
I  Ccesar'a  character  ia  chiefly  made  up  of  good-nature, 
I  showed  itself  in  all  its  farms  towards  his  Mends  or  hi 
BiieB.'his  servants  or  dependauts,  the  guilty  or  the  distr 
Av  for  Cato's  character,  it  is  rather  awfid  than  an 
Justice  BceiUH  most  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  God 
mercy  to  that  of  man.  A  being  who  has  nothing  to  p 
in  himself,  may  reward  every  man  according  to  his  w 
but  bo  whose  very  beat  actions  must  be  seen  with  gra; 
allowance,  cannot  be  too  mild,  moderate,  and  forgiving. 
this  reaaon,  among  all  the  monstrous  characters  in  hum* 
ture,  there  is  uono  so  odious,  nor  indeed  so  exquisitely 
euloUB,  fl8  that  of  a  rigid,  severe  temper  in  a  worthless 

This  part  of  good-natiu«,  however,  which  conaista  ii 
pardouiug  and  overlooking  of  faults,  is  to  be  exercised 
in  doing  ourselves  justice,  and  that  too  in  the  ordinaiy 
meroe  and  occurrences  of  life ;  for  in  the  public  admui 
■  tion  of  justice,  mercy  to  one  may  be  cruelty  to  others. 

It  is  grown  almost  into  a  maxim,  that  good-natured 
are  not  (dways  men  of  the  most  wit.  The  observation,  h 
opinion,  baa  no  foundation  in  nature.  The  greatest 
I  have  oonverw^d  with  are  men  eminent  for  their  hunu 
1  tako,  therefore,  this  remark  to  have  been  occaaiooei 
two  reoaous.  KJrat,  because  ill-nature  among  ordinal] 
Bcrvora  paaaea  for  wit,  A  spiteful  saj-ing  gratifies  so  i 
little  pauiona  in  those  who  near  it,  that  it  generally  a 
%ith  a  good  rocoptiou.  The  laugh  riaea  u»ou  it,  tmA 
wau  who  ulian  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  ahrewa  satirist.    ' 

iMj-  be  one  renaon,  why  a  great  many  pleasant  companionB 
ippear  bo  aurpriaingly  dull  when  thev  nave  endeavoured  to 
M  merry  in  print ;  the  piihlic  being  more  just  than  private 
dubs  or  assemblies,  in  distinguishing  between  what  is  wit 
■nd  what  is  ill-nature. 

Another  reason  why  the  good-natured  mtm  may  some- 
times bring  his  wit  in  question,  ia,  perhaps,  because  he  is  apt 
to  be  moved  with  compassion  for  those  misfortunes  and  in- 
firmities, which  another  would  turn  into  ridicule,  and  by 
means  gain  the  reputation  of  a  wit.  The  ill-naturea 
though  but  of  equal  parts,  gives  himself  a  larger  field 
to  expatiate  in,  he  exposes  the  failings  in  human  nature 
Vrhicli  the  other  would  cast  a  veil  over,  laughs  at  vices  which 
the  other  either  excuses  or  conceals,  gives  utterance  to  re- 
flections ■which  the  other  stifles,  falls  indifferently  upon 
fijends  or  enemies,  exposes  the  person  who  has  obliged  him, 
and  in  short  sticks  at  nothing  that  may  establish  his  charac- 
tei"  as  a  wit.  It  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  he  succeeds  in  it 
better  than  the  man  of  humanity,  as  a  person  who  makes 
use  of  indirect  methods  is  more  likely  to  grow  rich  than  the 
&ir  trader. 

No.  170.    FRIDAT,  SEPTEMBER  14. 

Suspiciones,  inimicilia,  induciffi, 
Bellum,  pax  rurKum —  Teh.  Eun. 

tIPOS  looking  over  the  letters  of  my  female  correspondents, 
I  find  several  feim  women  complaining  of  jealous  husbands, 
nd  at  the  same  time  protesting  their  own  innocence ;  and 
leRring'  my  advice  on  this  occasion.  I  shall  therefore  take 
Qua  Hubjoct  into  my  consideration  ;  and  the  more  willingly, 
becaoBC  I  find  that  the  Marquis  of  Halifax,  who,  in  bis  Ad- 
yice  to  his  Daughter,  has  instructed  a  wife  how  to  behave 
ifceraelf  towards  a  false,  an  intemperate,  a  choleric,  a  sullen, 
ft  covetous,  or  a  silly  husband,  has  not  spoken  one  word  of  a 
jealous  husband. 
^^  "  Jealonsy  ia  that  pain  which  a  man  feels  from  the  nppre- 
ension  that  he  is  not  eqiwlly  beloved  by  the  person  whom  he 
BBtipely  loves."  Now,  because  our  inward  passions  and  in- 
dinations  can  never  make  themselves  visible,  it  is  impossible 
Edt  a  jealous  man  to  be  thoroughly  cured  of  his  suspicions. 

I  Hu  thnugliti  iituig  at  best  in  a  state  of  doubtjnlne 
I  nncffrtaioty :  and  are  never  capable  of  receiTing  aaj 
I  &ction  OD  tlie  advantageous  side ;  so  tliat  his  inqiiir 
)  most  micMiisful  when  they  diacover  nothing:  hia  pi 
I  BriRON  from  hiM  disappointments,  and  his  life  ib  spent  i 
■■lit  of  A  Bccret  that  destroys  bis  happiness  if  he  cha 
Hud  it. 

An  ardent  love  is  always  a  strong  ingredient  in  thi 
Hlon  1  for  the  same  afieutiun  which  stirs  up  the  jealous 
di'sircK,  mid  Kivea  the  party  beloved  bo  beautiful  a  figi 
his  iningi nation,  makes  him  believe  she  kindles  the 
pitRsioii  in  others,  nnd  appears  as  amiable  to  all  behc 
Aiid  as  ioalousy  thus  arises  from  an  estraordinary  love 
of  BO  (loTicnte  a  nature,  that  it  scorns  to  take  up  with 
tiling  lesB  than  an  etjuaJ  return  of  love.  Not  the  wai 
fxpreasioUB  of  affection,  the  softest  and  most  tender 
crisy,  are  able  to  give  any  satisfaction,  where  we  are  nol 
Buaded  that  the  affection  ia  real  and  the  satisfaction  m» 
Yop  the  jcalouB  raan  wishes  himself  a  kind  of  deity  t> 
pprscin  he  lovoB  :  he  would  be  the  only  pleasure  of  her  b« 
the  omiiloymcnt  of  her  thoughts  ;  nnd  is  angry  at  everyt 
I   sho  admires,  or  takes  delight  in,  besides  hiniBelf. 

Plitfdria's  r(<i)uest  to  his  mistress,  upon  his  leaving  Ik 
Ithroo  (Jftys,  is  inimitably  beautiful  and  natural. 

Ciun  niillte  bio  prssons.  absecs  ui  sies : 

Dim,  DoetMque  tne  udm  :  me  deaideres : 

M«  somniM :  m*  expecles :  de  me  cogitea : 

Ho  Bpcmi :  ms  la  oblecles  :  mecum  lola  ais ; 

MdUx  do  il*  poatnuuA  iuum>iSi  quuido  ego  sum  taui.   Teb.] 

The  jmlous  man's  discasn  is  of  so  malignant  a  nature^ 
I  It  M)n¥(Tta  nil  he  taVea  into  its  own  nourishment.  A 
J  bohttviour  sets  him  ou  th(>  mck,  and  is  interpif't«d  as  w 
I  cttuico  of  avorsioit  or  indiffcrrucc ;  a  fond  one  raises  his 
1  lieions,  and  looks  (oo  inut'h  like  dissimulation  and  aiti 
I  If  tho  {H^twut  hp  lovw  bf  chit'ritil,  her  thoughts  must  ba 
I  ^oynid  ou  siu>t)ior ;  and  if  mi),  she  is  cciUuiIt  thinkin' 
I  >uiiiM>ir  lu  abi>rt,  thpw  is  no  word  or  gesture  so  k 
I  Bnuit,  but  il  pif'''  l""'  «"?«  bints,  fivds  his  suqw 

J  Riruishw  him  with  ftvsh  m«t1«'r»«filis«iwrv:  

I  Miuiiitiir  thi'  cIRvts  of  ih»  |iiwu\tn.  one  wouU  rMbM-  ti 
f  prooMdtA  Au(H  ut  inTetemto  hativd  tluw  mi  'wmaaJT* 
I'nr  nrtaiuly  nv»  cttu  utwt  «ttb  won  4ii|Mita«ik^ 

uneasiness  tfuai  a  suspeeted  wife,  if  we  eicept  tlie  jealous 

But  the  great  unbappiaesB  of  thia  passion  is,  that  it  na- 
tnraUj  t«nd3  to  alienate  the  affection  which  it  is  so  solicitous 
igross ;  and  that  for  these  two  reasons  ;  because  it  lays 
too  great  a  restraint  on  the  worda  and  actions  of  the  sus- 
pected person,  and  at  the  same  time  shows  you  have  no  hon- 
Dnrable  opinion  of  her,  both  of  which  are  strong  motives  to 

Koris  this  the  worst  effect  of  jealousy;  for  it  often  drawa 
ift^  it  a  more  fatal  train  of  consequences,  and  makes  the 
person  you  suspect  guilty  of  the  very  crimen  you  are  so 
imnch  a&aid  of.  It  is  very  natural  for  uuch  who  are  treated 
lU,  and  upbraided  falsely,  to  find  out  an  intimate  friend  that 
irQl  hear  their  complaints,  condole  their  sufferings,  and 
kideaTOur  to  soothe  and  assuage  their  secret  resentments. 
Beeides,  jealousy  puts  a  woman  often  in  mind  of  an  ill  thing 
"  it  she  would  not  otherwise  perhaps  have  thought  of,  and 
UB  her  imagination  with  sucn  an  unlucky  idea,  as  in  time 
rows  familiar,  eicitea  desire,  and  loses  all  the  shame  and  hor- 
IT  which  might  at  first  attend  it.  Kor  is  it  a  wonder,  if  she 
irho  suffers  wrongfully  in  a  man's  opinion  of  her,  and  has 
therefore  nothing  to  forfeit  in  his  esteem,  resolves  to  give 
ta  reason  for  his  suspicions,  and  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of 
e  crime,  since  she  muHt  undergo  the  ignominy.  Such  pro- 
lably  were  the  considerations  that  directed  the  wise  man  in 
bis  advice  to  husbands :  "  Be  not  jealous  over  the  wife  of  thy 
bosom,  and  teach  her  not  an  evil  lesson  against  thyself." 

And  here,  among  the  other  torments  which  thia  passion 
produces,  we  may  asually  observe,  that  none  are  greater 
nonmers  than  jealous  men,  when  the  person  who  provoked 
"  't  jetdousy  is  taken  from  them.  Then  it  is  that  their  love 
"cfl  out  furiously,  and  throws  off  all  the  mixtures  of  sus- 
Q  which  choked  and  smothered  it  before.  The  beautiful 
«  of  the  character  rise  uppermost  in  the  jeidous  husband's 
lory,  and  upbraid  him  with  the  ill  usage  of  so  divine  a 
tnre  as  was  once  in  his  possession;  whilst  all  the  little 
(mpepfectionB  that  were  before  so  unenay  to  him,  wear  of! 
^wm  bis  remembrance,  and  show  themselves  no  more. 
We  may  see,  by  what  baa  been  said,  that  jealousy  takes  tlie 

deepest  root  in  men  of  amorous  dispoaitiona ;  and  of  these 
we  find  three  kinds  who  are  most  OTcr-run  with  it. 

The  first  are  tboae  who  are  conscious  to  themselves  of 
any  infirmity,  whether  it  be  weakness,  old  age,  deformity, 
ignorance,  or  the  like.  These  men  are  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  unamiable  part  of  themselves,  that  they  have  not 
the  confidence  to  think  they  are  really  beloved ;  and  are  bq 
distrustful  of  their  own  merits,  that  all  fondness  towarda 
them  puts  them  out  of  countenance,  and  looks  like  a  jeatnp- 
on  their  persons.  They  grow  suspicious  on  their  first  loos- 
ing in  a  glass,  and  are  stung  with  jealousy  at  the  sight  of 
a  wrinkle.  A  handsome  fellow  immediately  alarms  them, 
and  everything  that  looks  young  or  gay  turna  their  thoughts 
upon  their  wives. 

A  second  sort  of  men,  who  are  most  liable  to  this  paa- 
sioD,  are  those  of  cunning,  wary,  and  distrustful  tempers.  It 
ia  a  fault  very  justly  found  in  histories  composea  by  poli- 
ticians, that  they  leave  nothing  to  chance  or  humour,  but  are 
still  for  deriving  every  action  from  some  plot  or  contrivance, 
from  drawing  up  a  perpetual  scheme  of  causes  and  eventB, 
and  preserving  a  constant  correspondence  between  the  camp 
and  the  council-table.  And  thus  it  happens  in  the  affairs  of 
love  with  men  of  too  refined  a  thought.  They  put  a  construc- 
tion on  a  look,  and  find  out  a  deaign  in  a  smile ;  they  give  new 
senses  and  significations  to  words  and  actions  ;  and  are  ever 
tormenting  themselves  with  fancies  of  their  own  raising : 
they  generally  act  in  a  disguise  themselves,  and  therefore 
mistake  all  outward  shows  and  appearances  for  hypocrisy  in 
others  ;  so  that  I  believe  no  men  see  less  of  the  truth  and 
reality  of  things,  than  these  great  refiners  upon  incidents, 
who  are  so  wonderfully  subtle  and  over-wise  in  their  con- 

Now,  what  these  men  fancy  they  know  of  women  by  r^ 
flection,  your  lewd  and  vicious  men  beHeve  they  have  learned 
by  experience.  They  have  seen  the  poor  husband  so  misled 
by  tricks  and  artifices,  and,  in  the  midst  of  his  inquiries,  so 
lost  and  bewildered  in  a  crooked  intrigue,  that  they  still  aua- 
pect  an  under-plot  in  eveir  female  action ;  and  especially 
where  they  aee  any  resemblance  in  the  behaviour  of  two 
persons,  are  apt  to  fancy  it  proceeds  from  the  same  deaign  in 
Doth.     These  men,  therefore,  bear  hard  upon  the  suspected  — 

^.piiTBue  hep  (jloBe  through  nil  her  tuminga  and  windings, 
ind  nre  too  well  acquainted  with  the  chace,  to  he  flung  off 
ttj  any  false  steps  or  aouhles :  besides,  their  acquaintance  and 
eonversation  has  lain  wholly  among  the  yicious  port  of  wo- 
jnsnkind,  and  thereibre  it  is  no  wonder  they  censure  all  alike, 
.'tod  look  upon  the  whole  sex  as  a  speciea  of  impostors.  But 
S,  notwithstaliding  their  priTate  experience,  they  can  get  over 
ttwe  prqudices,  and  entertain  a  favourahle  opinion  of  some 
Iromen,  yet  their  own  loose  desires  will  stir  up  new  suspicions 
Irom  another  side,  and  make  them  heheve  all  men  subject  to 
8ie  same  inclinations  with  themselves. 

Whether  these  or  other  motives  are  moat  predominant, 
TTe  leam  irom  the  modem  histories  of  America,  as  well  as 
lur  own  experience  in  this  part  of  the  world,  that  iea- 
8  no  northern  passion,  but  rages  most  in  those  nations 
i  lie  nearest  the  influence  of  the  sun.  It  is  a  misfortune 
an  to  be  bom  between  the  tropics ;  for  there  lie 
he  hottest  regions  of  jealousy,  which  as  you  come  north- 
fari  cools  all  along  with  the  climate,  till  you  scarce  meet 
nything  like  it  in  the  polar  circle.  Our  own  nation  is  verv 
Bnperately  situated  in  this  respect ;  and  if  we  meet  witn 
Dme  few  disordered  with  the  violence  of  this  passion,  they 
J  not  the  proper  growth  of  our  country,  but  are  many 
^reea  nearer  the  sun  in  their  constitution  than  in  their 

After  this  frightful  account  of  jealousy,  and  the  persons 
rho  are  moat  subject  to  it,  it  will  be  but  fiiir  to  bLow  by 
rhat  means  the  passion  may  be  best  allayed,  and  those  who 
re  possessed  with  it  set  at  ease.  Other  faults,  indeed,  are 
lot  under  the  wife's  jurisdiction,  and  should,  if  possible, 
ecape  her  observation ;  hut  jealousy  calls  upon  her  par- 
icuuirly  for  its  cure,  and  deserves  all  her  art  and  apphcation 
D  the  attempt :  besides,  she  has  this  for  her  encouragement, 
bat  her  endeavours  n^ill  he  always  pleasing,  and  that  she  will 
till  find  the  aflection  of  her  husband  rising  towards  her  in 
roportion  aa  hta  doubts  and  suspicions  vanish ;  for,  aa  we 
ive  seen  all  along,  there  is  so  great  a  mixture  of  love  in 
talouay  ns  is  well  worth  the  separating.  But  this  sliall  be 
^^6  subject  of  another  paper. 

No.  171.     SATUEDAT,  SEPTEMBEB  18. 

HiTma  in  my  yeaterday's  paper  discovered  the  nat 
jealou^,  and  pointed  out  the  peraonB  who  w«  most  ai 
to  it,  I  must  Tiere  apply  myself  to  my  fair  correapon 
who  desire  to  live  well  witn  a  jeaJoua  husband,  and  ti 
hiB  mind  of  its  unjust  euspicrona. 

The  first  rule  I  shall  propose  to  be  obaerved  is,  tha 
never  seem  to  dialike  in  another  what  the  jealous  m 
himself  guilty  of,  or  to  admire  anything  in  ■which  he  hi 
does  not  eicel,  A  jealous  man  is  very  quick  in  his  ap 
tiona,  he  knows  bow  to  fiud  a  double  edge  in  an  invc 
and  to  draw  a  satire  on  himself  out  of  a  panegyric  o 
other.  He  does  not  trouble  himself  to  consider  the  pt 
but  to  direct  the  character  ;  and  is  aecretly  pleased  oi 
founded  as  he  finda  more  or  leaa  of  himaelf  in  it.  The 
mendation  of  anything  in  another  stirs  up  his  jealoia 
it  shows  you  have  a  value  for  others  besides  himselfi 
the  commendation  of  that  which  he  himself  wants,  inn 
him  more,  as  it  shows  that  in  some  respects  you  prefer  6 
before  him.  Jealousy  is  admirably  described  in  thiai 
\  tv  Horace  in  his  Ode  to  Lydia.  ] 

Quum  tu,  Lydia,  TelephL  .i 

Cervicem  roseam,  et  cerea  Telephi  | 

Lnudfl.1  brapKio.,  tk  memn 

rprvons  diffidlL  bile  tumetjecni: 

Ci>ita  Bf  do  manet ;  humoi  eC  in  gmu 
Furlim  labilur  a^uens 

QuiLm  leutia  penitos  macerer  ignibiu. 
Whan  TBlepbus  hia  yontliful  chaima. 
His  rosy  UDck  and  winding  arms, 
With  endless  rapture  you  recite, 
And  in  that  pleading  name  delight ; 
My  heart,  inflamed  by  jealousheata. 
With  numberlesB  rcseiumeiiU  beata ; 
From  my  pale  cheek  the  colour  flies, 
And  all  the  mail  within  jne  dies : 
By  turns  aiy  hidden  Rrief  appears 
In  rising  alghs  and  falling  tears. 
That  show  loo  well  the  warm  deaire*. 
The  Biltnt,  bIuw,  consuming  fires. 
Which  on  my  inmost  vitals  prey. 
And  melt  my  very  soul  away. 

The  jealous  man  is  not  indeed  svo^ry  if  you  dislike  an- 
■ "  (r :  but  if  you  find  those  fuults  which  are  to  be  found  in 
own  character,  you  discover  not  only  your  dislike  of  an- 
ther, but  of  himadf.     In  short,  he  is  bo  desirous  of  enCTosa- 
]£  all  your  love,  that  he  is  grieved  at  the  want  of  any  charm, 
_    'nich  ne  believes  has  power  to  raise  it ;  and  if  he  finds,  by 
pur  cenaurea  on  others,  that  he  is  not  so  agreeable  in  your 
upinion  as  he  might  be,  he  naturally  concludes  you  could 
iDte  him  better  n  he  had  other  qualifications,  and  that  by 
consequence  your  afiection  does  not  rise  bo  high  as  be  thinlo 
"^         "  ';.     If,  therefore,  his  temper  be  grave  or  sullen,  you 
t  be  too  pleased  with  a  jest,  or  transported  with  any 
at  is  gay  and  diverting.     If  bis  beauty  be  none  of 
st,  you  musb  be  a  professed  admirer  of  prudence,  or 
y  other  quality  he  is  master  otj  or  at  least  vain  enough  to 
ink  he  is. 

In  the  ne»t  place,  you  must  be  sure  to  be  free  and  open 
UT  conversation  with  bitn,  and  to  let  in  light  upon  your 
IB,  to  unravel  all  your  designs,  and  discover  every  secret, 
■  triiling  or  indifiereut.  A  jealous  husband  has  a 
ar  averaion  to  winks  and  whispers,  and  if  be  does  not 
1  tbe  bottom  of  everything,  will  be  sure  to  go  beyond 
it  in  hia  fears  and  suspicions.  He  will  always  expect  to  be 
your  chief  confidant,  and  where  he  finds  himself  kept  out  of 
a  secret,  wiU  believe  there  is  more  in  it  than  there  should 
be.  And  here  it  ia  of  great  concern,  that  you  preserve  the 
character  of  your  sincerity  uniform  and  of  a  piece ;  for  if  he 
once  finda  a  false  gloss  put  upon  any  single  action,  he  quickly 
suspects  all  the  rest ;  his  working  imagination  immediately 
takes  a  false  hint,  and  runa  off  with  it  into  several  remote 
I  ooQsequences,  till  be  baa  proved  very  ingenious  in  working 
I  But  bia  own  misery. 

If  both  these  methods  fail,  the  best  way  will  be  to  let  him 
K  you  are  much  cast  down  and  afflicted  for  tbe  ill  opinion 
ie  entertains  of  you,  and  tbe  diaquietudea  he  himself  sufiers 
IT  your  sake.  There  are  many  wno  take  a  kind  of  barbarous 
'  aeure  in  the  jealousy  of  those  who  love  thera,  that  insult 
iraa  aching  heart,  and  triumph  in  their  charms  which  are 
e  to  excite  so  much  uneasiness. 

Ardeat  ipsa  licet,  tonncDtis  gaudct  amantia.    Jut. 
t  these  often  cajry  the  humour  so  for,  till  their  afiected 
coldness  and  indifference  quite  kiUa  all  tbe  fondness  of  a 

2S  addi&ok's  ^*onu 

lover,  and  are  then  eiire  to  meet  in  their  tnm  with  all  the 
ooQtempt  aud  scorn  that  is  duo  to  so  insolent  a  behaviour, 
On  the  contrary,  it  is  very  prohable,  a  melancholy,  dejected 
carnage,  the  uaual  effects  of  injured  innocence,  may  soften 
the  jtaloiia  husband  into  pity,  mate  him  sensible  of  tha 
wrong  he  does  you,  and  work  out  of  hia  mind  all  those  fears 
and  HUBpicions  that  make  you  both  unhappy.  At  least  it 
will  have  this  good  effect,  that  he  will  keep  hie  jealousy  to  him- 
self, and  repine  in  private,  either  because  he  is  sensible  It  ia 
a  weakness,  and  will  therefore  hide  it  from  your  knowledge, 
or  because  he  will  be  apt  to  fear  some  ill  effect  it  may  produce, 
in  cooling  your  love  towards  him,  or  diverting  it  to  another. 

There  is  still  another  secret,  that  can  never  fail,  if  you  can 
once  get  it  believed,  and  which  is  often  practised  by  women 
of  greater  cunning  than  virtue ;  thia  is,  to  change  sides  for 
a  while  with  a  jealous  man,  and  to  turn  hia  own  passion 
upon  himaelf ;  to  take  some  occasion  of  growing  jealous  of 
hira,  and  to  follow  tha  example  he  himaelf  hath  set  you. 
Thia  counterfeited  jealouBy  will  bring  him  a  great  de^  of 
pleasure,  if  he  thinks  it  real ;  for  he  knows  experimentally 
how  much  love  goea  along  with  thia  paasion,  ana  will  besides 
feel  something  hke  the  satisfaction  of  a  revenge,  in  seeing 
you  undergo  all  hia  own  tortures.  But  this,  indeed,  is  an 
artifice  so  difficult,  and  at  the  same  time  so  disingenuouH, 
that  it  ought  never  to  be  put  in  practice,  but  by  such  aa 
have  skill  enough  to  cover  the  deceit,  and  innocence  to  rea- 
der it  excusable. 

I  shall  conclude  this  essay  with  the  story  of  Herod  and 
Mariamne,  aa  I  have  collected  it  out  of  Joaephua,  which  may 
aer vo  almost  as  an  ei^ample  to  whatever  can  be  said  on  thia 

Mariamne  had  all  the  clarma  that  beauty,  birth,  wit,  and 
youth  could  give  a  woman  ;  and  Herod  aU  the  love  that 
Buch  charms  are  able  to  raise  in  a  warm  and  amorous  dis- 
position. In  the  midst  of  this  hia  fondness  for  Mariamne,  he 
put  her  brother  to  death,  aa  he  did  her  father  not  many 
years  after.  The  barbarity  of  the  action  was  represented  to 
Mark  Antony,  who  immediately  summoned  Herod  into 
Egypt,  to  answer  for  the  crime  that  was  there  laid  to  hia 
charge.  Herod  attributed  the  summons  to  Antony's  desire 
of  Mariamne,  whom  therefore,  before  hia  departure,  he  gave 
into  the  cuatody  of  hia  uncle  Joaeph,  with  private  orders  to 


nt  ber  to  death,  if  any  Buch  violence  waa  offered  to  IiimBelf. 
i  Joseph  was  much  delighted  -with  Mariamne'B  convereo- 
1,  and  endeavoured  with  all  his  art  and  rhetoric  to  Bei 
It  the  eicess  of  Herod's  paeaion  for  her:  but  when  he  still 
d  ber  cold  and  incredulous,  he  inconsiderately  told  her, 
t,  oerttun  inatance  of  her  lord's  affection,  the  private  orders 
e  had  left  behind  him,  which  plainly  showed,  according  to 
poeeph's  interpretation,  that  he  could  neither  live  nor  die 
|irithout  her.  This  barbarous  instance  of  a  wOd,  unreason- 
_Kile  passion  quite  put  out  for  a  time  those  little  remains 
^affection  she  still  had  for  ber  lord ;  for  now  her  thoughts 
were  so  wholly  taken  up  with  the  cruelty  of  bis  orders,  that 
■be  could  not  consider  the  kindness  that  produced  them,  and 
therefore  represented  him  in  her  imagination  rather  under 
the  frightful  idea  of  a  murderer  than  a  lover.  Herod  was  at 
length  acquitted,  and  dismissed  by  Miffk  Antony,  when  his 
eoiu  was  &il  in  flames  for  his  Marianme ;  but  before  their 
meeting,  he  was  not  a  little  alarmed  at  the  report  he  had 
heard  of  hia  uncle's  couversation  and  iamiliarity  with  her  in 
his  absence.  This,  therefore,  waa  the  first  diaeourae  he  en- 
I  tntained  her  with,  in  which  she  found  it  no  easy  matter  to 
t  hie  suspicions.  But  at  last  he  appeared  so  well  aatis- 
d  of  her  innocence,  that,  from  reproaches  and  wranglinga, 
_(  fell  to  tears  and  embraces.  Both  of  them  wept  very 
(nderly  at  their  reconciliation,  and  Herod  poured  out  his 
^  'a  Boul  to  her  in  the  warmeat  protestations  of  love  and 
;  when,  amidst  all  his  sighs  and  hmguiahings,  she 
1  him,  whether  the  private  orders  he  left  with  his  uncle 
ph  were  an  instance  of  auch  an  inflamed  afl'ection.  The 
1  king  was  immediately  roused  at  so  unexpected  a 
m,  and  concluded  Ida  unde  must  have  been  too  familiar 
er,  before  he  would  have  discovered  auch  a  secret.  In 
.,  he  put  his  uncle  to  death,  and  verv  difficultly  prevailed 
a  himself  to  spare  Marianme. 

\er  this  he  was  forced  on  a  second  journey  into  Egypt, 
1  he  committed  his  lady  to  the  care  of  Sohecius,  with 
ame  private  orders  he  had  hefore  given  his  uncle,  if  any 
oschicf  befell  himself.  In  the  mean  whde  Mariamne  so  won 
1  Sohemus  hy  her  presents  and  obhging  conversation, 
t  she  drew  all  the  secret  from  him,  with  which  Herod  had 
I  him ;  80  that  after  his  return,  when  he  flew  to 
It  with  all  the  transports  of  joy  and  love,  she  received  h 

©oldly  with  aighs  and  tears,  and  all  the  marks  o 
and  averaion.  Thia  reception  so  etirred  up  his  indignation, 
that  he  had  certainly  slain  her  with  hia  own  hands,  had  not  he 
feared  ho  himself  should  have  hecome  the  g^^ater  sufferer  hy 
it.  It  was  not  loog  after  this,  when  he  had  another  violent 
return  of  love  upon  him ;  Mariamne  was  therefore  sent  for 
to  him,  whom  he  endeavoured  to  soften  and  reconcile  with  all 
poaaible  coujugal  caresaea  and  endearments ;  but  ahe  declined 
nis  embmccH,  and  answered  all  hia  fondnesa  with  bitter  in- 
vectives for  the  death  of  her  father  and  her  brother.  This 
behaviour  so  incensed  Herod,  that  he  very  hardly  refrained 
from  striking  her;  when,  in  the  heat  of  their  quarrel,  there 
came  in  a  witness,  aubomed  by  some  of  Mariaame'a  enemies, 
who  accused  her  to  the  ting  of  a  design  to  poiaon  bim. 
Herod  was  now  prepared  to  hear  anything  in  her  prejudice, 
and  immediately  ordered  her  servant  to  be  stretched  upon 
the  rack ;  who,  in  the  extremity  of  hia  torturea,  confest,  that 
his  mistress's  aversion  to  the  lung  arose  from  something  So- 
hemus  had  told  her ;  but  as  for  any  design  of  poisoning,  he 
utterly  disowned  the  least  knowledge  of  it.  This  confession 
quickly  proved  fatal  to  Sohemus,  who  now  lay  under  the  same 
suspicions  and  sentence  that  Joseph  had  before  him  on  the 
like  occasion.  Hor  would  Herod  rest  here,  but  accused  her 
with  great  vehemence  of  a  design  upon  his  life,  and,  by  hia 
authority  with  the  judges,  had  her  publicly  condemned  and 
executed.  Herod  soon  after  her  death  grew  melancholy  and 
dejected,  retiring  from  the  public  administration  of  affairs 
into  a  solitary  forest,  and  there  abandoning  himself  to  all  the 
black  conaiderations  which  naturally  ariae  fium  a  passion 
made  up  of  love,  remorse,  pity,  and  despair.  He  used  to 
rave  for  his  Mariamne,  and  to  call  upon  her  in  hia  diatracted 
fits ;  and  in  all  probability  "would  soon  have  followed  her,  had 
not  his  thoughts  been  seaaonably'  called  off  from  so  sad  an 
object  by  public  atorms,  which  at  that  time  very  nearly 
threatened  him. 

No.  173.     TUESDAY,  SEPTEBIBEfi  18. 

— Rfimove  fera  tnonstra,  tuaque 
Suiiilcaa  vullus,  qutecunque  bil,  tolle  Medusce.     Ovid.  IAet. 
In  a  late  paper  I  mentioned  the  project  of  an  ingenioui 
author  for  the  erecting  of  tjeveral  handicraft  prizes  to  be  con- 


ided  for  by  our  British  artiBana.and  the  influence  they  might 
re  towanu  the  improvement  of  our  seTernl  manufacturea. 
lave  since  that  been  very  much  mirprised  by  the  following 
IrertiBeineiit  which  I  find  in  the  Post-Boy  of  the  11th  in- 

it,  and  again  repeated  in  the  Poat-Boy  of  the  15th. 

On  the  9th  of  October  nest  wiE  bo  run  for  upon 
olMhill  Heatb,  in  Warwickahire,  a  plate  of  aii  guineas 
lue,  3  beats,  by  any  horse,  mare,  or  gelding,  that  hath  not 
on  above  the  value  of  51,  the  winning  horse  to  be  sold  for 
01.,  to  cany  10  atone  weight,  if  14  banda  high  ;  if  above  or 
niet,  to  carry  or  be  allowed  weight  for  inches,  and  to  be 
Dtered  Friday  the  15th  at  the  Swan  in  Coleshill,  before  6  in 
e  eTening.  Also  a  plate  of  less  value  to  be  ran  for  by  aaaea. 
lie  «aae  day  a  gold  ring  to  be  grinned  for  by  men." 

The  first  of  these  diversions,  that  is  to  he  exhibited  by  the 
tf.  race-horBea,  may  probably  have  its  use ;  but  tljo  two 
it,  in  which  the  assea  and  men  are  concerned,  seem  to  mo 
»getfaer  eitraordinary  and  unaccountable.  Why  they 
onld  keep  running  asses  at  Ooleshill,  or  how  making 
mtha  turns  to  account  in  Warwickshire,  more  than  in  any 
ler  parts  of  England,  I  cannot  comprehend.  I  hav<e  looked 
er  all  the  Olympic  games,  and  do  not  find  anything  in 
3m  like  an  ass-race,  or  a  match  at  grinning.  Koweyer  it 
,  I  am  informed,  that  several  asBes  are  now  kept  in  body- 
"thea,  and  sweated  every  morning  upon  the  heath ;  and 
it  all  the  country-fellowa  within  ten  miles  of  the  Swan  grin 

hour  or  two  m  their  glasses  every  morning,  in  order  to 
■lify  themselves  for  the  9th  of  October.  The  prize  which 
proposed  t-o  he  grinned  for,  haa  raised  such  an  ambition 

og  the  common  people  of  out-grinning  one  another,  that 
iny  very  diaceming  persons  are  afraid  it  should  spoil  most 
tne  faces  in  the  county ;  and  that  a  Warwickahire  man 
1  be  known  by  his  grin,  as  Soman  Catholics  imagine  a 

itisb  mnn  is  by  his  tail.     The  gold  ring  which  ia  made 

prize  of  deformity,  is  just  the  reverse  of  the  golden  apple 

t  was  formerly  made  the  prize  of  beauty,  and  should  carry 

its  posie  the  old  motto  inverted, 
Detur  letriori. 

to  accommodate  it  to  the  capacity  of  the  combatants, 
Tha  frighirull'sl  grumer 
Be  Ihe  winnur. 


In  ihe  mean  white  T  would  adviae  a  Dutch  painter 
present  at  tJiis  great  controveray  of  facea,  in  order  to  i 
collection  of  the  most  remarliable  grine  that  ahull  be 

1  must  not  here  omit  an  account  which  I  lately  re 
of  one  of  these  griiming  matches  from  a  gentleman 
upon  reading  the  above-mentioned  advertieement,  enteP 
a  coffee-house  with  the  following  narratiye.  Upon  the  t 
of  Namur,  among  other  public  rejoicings  made  on  th 
casion,  there  was  a  gold  rmg  giTcn  hy  a  Whig  justice  i 
peace  to  be  grinned  for.  The  first  competitor  that  ei 
the  lists,  was  a  black,  swarthy  Frenchman,  who  accide] 

{lassed  that  way,  and  being  a  man  naturally  of  a  wit 
ook  and  hard  features,  promised  himself  good  succeaa, 
was  placed  upon  a  table  in  the  great  point  of  view 
looking  upon  the  company  like  Milton's  death, 
Grinn'd  horribly  a  ghaslJy  smile. — 
His  muHcles  were  ao  drawn  together  on  each  side  t 
&ce  that  he  showed  twenty  teeth  at  a  grin,  and  pul 
country  in  some  pain,  lest  a  foreigner  should  cany  awa; 
honour  of  the  day  ;  but  upon  a  further  trial  they  foim 
was  master  only  of  the  merry  grin. 

The  neit  that  mounted  the  table  was  a  Malecontei 
those  days,  and  a  great  master  of  the  whole  art  of  grim 
but  particularly  eicelled  in  the  angry  grin.  He  did  his 
so  well,  that  he  is  said  to  have  made  half  a  do^en  wc 
miscarry  ;  but  the  justice  being  apprized  by  one  who  B 
near  him,  that  the  fellow  who  grinned  in  his  fece  was  8 
cobite,  and  being  unwilling  that  a  disaffected  person  ah 
win  the  gold  ring,  and  be  looked  upon  as  the  best  grinnc 
the  country,  he  ordered  the  oaths  to  be  tendered  unto 
upon  his  quitting  the  table,  which  the  grinner  refusinj 
was  set  aside  as  an  unqualified  person.  There  were  ae\ 
other  grotesque  figures  that  presented  themaelvea,  whit 
would  be  too  tedious  to  describe.  I  must  not,  how< 
omit  a  plough-man,  who  live  in  the  further  part  of 
country,  and  being  very  lucky  in  a  pair  of  long  lanthom-j 
wrung  his  face  into  such  a  hideous  grimace,  that  every 
ture  of  it  appeared  under  a  different  distortion.  The  w 
company  stood  astonished  at  such  a  complicated  grin, 
were  ready  to  assign  the  prize  to  him,  had  it  not  been  pn 
by  one  of  his  autagomsts  that  he  had  practised  with  verj 

for  flome  days  before,  and  had  a  crab  found  upon  bim  at  the 
>ery  time  of  grmning ;  upon  which  the  best  judges  of  grin- 
ning  declared  it  as  their  opinion,  that  he  was  not  to  be  loolted 
npon  as  a  fair  grianer,  and  therefore  ordered  him  to  be  set 
aside  as  a  cheat. 

The  priie,  it  seems,  fell  at  length  upon  a  cobbler,  GUea  Gor- 
gon by  name,  who  produced  several  new  grins  of  hia  own  in- 
dention, httring  been  used  to  cut  faces  for  many  years  together 
•*er  tia  last.  At  the  very  first  grin  he  cast  every  human  fea- 
tioe  out  of  his  countenance,  at  the  second  he  became  the  face 
of  a  epout,  at  the  third  a  baboon,  at  the  fourth  the  head  of  a 
bass-viol,  and  at  the  fifth  a  pair  of  nut-crackers.  The  whole 
iBsembly  wondered  at  his  accomplishments,  and  bestowed  the 
ling  on  him  unanimously ;  but,  what  he  esteemed  more  than 
^  the  rest,  a  country  wench  whom  he  had  wooed  in  vain  for 
above  five  years  before,  was  so  charmed  with  his  grins,  and 
Uie  applauses  which  he  received  on  idl  sides,  that  she  married 
him  the  week  following,  and  to  this  day  wears  the  prize 
upon  her  linger,  the  cobbler  having  made  use  of  it  aa  his  wed- 

This  paper  might  perhaps  seem  very  impertinent,  if  it 
grew  serious  in  the  conclusion.  I  would  nevertheless  leave 
it  to,  the  consideration  of  those  who  are  the  patrons  of  this 
monstrous  trial  of  skill,  whether  or  no  they  are  not  guilty, 
in  some  measure,  of  an  af&ont  to  their  species,  in  treating 
after  this  manner  the  Human  Face  Divine,  and  turning  that 
put  of  us,  which  has  so  great  an  image  impressed  upon  it, 
into  the  image  of  a  monkey ;  whether  the  raising  such  silly 
oompetitions  among  the  ignorant,  proposing  prizes  for  such 
nselesG  accomplishments,  filling  the  common  people's  heads 
L  irith  8ucb  senseless  ambitions,  and  inspiring  them  with  such 
1  dieard  ideas  of  superiority  and  pre-eminence,  has  not  in  it 
lething  immoral  as  well  as  ridiculous. 

No.  177.    SATIJEDAT,  SEPTEMBEE  22. 

— Quia  emm  lionuB,  sut  A 
ArcsnS,  quulem  Gereris  vult  ei 
Ulla  nlieoa  eibi  ciedat  maia  V— 

Ik  one  of  my  last  week's 
k  it  u  the  effect  of  :<uistitu 

ira  I  treated  of  good-nature, 
;  I  shall  now  speak  of  itM~ 

it  is  a  moral  virtue.  The  first  may  make  a,  man  easy  in  biin> 
self,  and  agreeable  to  others,  but  implies  no  merit  in  him 
that  ia  poBseaBed  of  it.  A  man  is  no  more  to  be  praiaed  upon 
tbis  account,  than  because  he  has  a  regulM  pulse  or  a  good 
digestion.  This  good-nature,  however,  in  toe  constitution, 
which  Sir,  Drydeu  somewhere  calls  a  miUdnesH  of  blood,  ia 
an  admirable  ground-work  for  the  other.  Id  order,  there- 
fore, to  try  our  good-natare,  whether  it  arises  from  the  body 
or  the  mind,  whether  it  be  founded  in  the  animal  or  rational 
part  of  our  nature,  in  a  word,  whether  it  be  such  as  is  en- 
titled to  any  other  reward,  besides  that  secret  satisfaction, 
and  contentment  of  min-d,  which  ia  essential  to  it,  and  the 
kind  reception  it  procures  ua  in  the  world,  we  must  examine 
it  by  the  following  rules. 

First,  whether  it  acta  with  steadinesfl  and  uniformity  in 
eicknesa  and  in  health,  in  prosperity  and  in  adversity :  if 
otherwise,  it  is  to  be  looked  upon  as  nothing  else  but  an  irra- 
diation of  the  mind  from  some  new  supply  of  spirits,  or  a, 
more  kindly  circulation  of  the  blood.  Sir  Francis  Bacon 
mentions  a  cunning  solicitor,  who  would  never  ask  a  favour 
of  a  great  man  before  dinner ;  but  took  care  to  prefer 
his  petition  at  a  time  when  the  party  petitioned  had  his 
mind  free  from  caie,  and  his  appetites  in  good  humour. 
Such  a  transient,  temporary  good-nature  aa  this,  is  not  that 
philanthropy,  that  love  of  mankind,  which  deserves  the  title 
of  a  moral  virtue. 

The  next  way  of  a  man's  bringing  his  good-nftture  to  the 
test,  is  to  consider  whether  it  operates  according  to  the  rules 
of  reason  and  duty ;  for  if,  notwithstanding  its  general  bene- 
volence to  mnaikind,  it  m.akes  no  distinction  between  its  ob- 
jects, if  it  eserts  itself  promiscuously  towards  the  deserving 
and  the  undeserving,  if  it  relieves  alike  the  idle  and  the  in- 
digent, if  it  gives  itself  up  to  the  first  petitioner,  and  lights 
upon  any  one  rather  by  accident  than  choice,  it  may  pass  for 
an  amiable  instinct,  but  must  not  assume  the  name  of  a  mo- 
ral rirtue. 

The  third  trial  of  good-nature  will  be  the  esamining  our- 
selves,  whether  or  no  we  are  able  to  exert  it  to  our  own  dis- 
advantage, and  employ  it  on  proper  ohjects,  notvrithstanding 
any  little  pmn,  want,  or  inconvenience  which  may  arise  to 
ourselves  from  it :  in  a  word,  whether  we  are  willing  to  risk 
any  part  of  our  fortune  or  reputation,  our  health  or  ease, 

So.  177.  -  THS  BPECTATOS. 

fM"  the  benefit  of  mankind.  Among  all  tHeae  eipreBsiona  of 
good-nature,  I  ahall  single  out  that  which  goes  under  tha 
general  name  of  charity,  ae  it  conaista  in  relieving  the  indi- 
gent ;  that  being  a  trial  of  this  kind  which  otiera  itself  to  us 
ahnost  at  all  times  and  in  every  place. 
1  should  propoee  it  as  a  rule  to  every  one,  who  is  provided 
r  competency  of  fortune  more  than  Bufficient  for  the 
._..  iee  of  life,  to  lay  aaide  a  certain  proportion  of  his  in- 
for  the  use  of  the  poor.  This  1  would  look  upon  as  an 
ling  tt>  TTim  who  has  a  right  to  the  whole,  fof  t^e  use  of 
ttose  whom,  in  the  passage  hereafter  mentioned,  he  has  de- 
Kribed  as  his  own  repreaentatives  on  earth.  At  the  same 
time  we  ehould  manage  our  charity  with  such  prudence  and 
aution,  that  we  may  not  hurt  our  own  friends  or  relationa 
whilst  we  are  doing  good  to  those  who  are  strangers  to  ua. 
This  may  posaihly  be  expliuned  better  by  an  example  than 

Engenius  is  a  man  of  universal  good-nature,  and  generous 
Inyond  the  extent  of  his  fortune  ;  but  witbal  so  prudent  in 
tte  economy  of  his  affairs,  that  what  goes  out  in  charity 
it  made  up  by  good  management.  Eugenius  has  what  the 
world  calls  two  hundred  pounds  a  year;  but  never  values 
kimself  above  ninescore,  as  not  thinking  he  has  a  right  to  the 
tenth  part,  which  he  always  appropriates  to  charitable  rtsea. 
To  this  sum  he  Ireq^uently  makes  other  voluntary  additions, 
insomuch  that  in  a  good  year,  for  such  he  accounts  those  iu 
■hich  he  has  been  able  to  make  greater  bounties  than  ordi- 
nary, he  has  given  above  twice  the  sum  to  the  sickly  and  in- 
digent. Eugenius  prescribes  to  himself  many  particular 
days  of  lasting  and  abstinence,  in  order  to  increase  his  pri- 
wie  bank  of  charity,  and  seta  aside  what  would  be  the  cur- 
rant  eipenses  of  those  times  for  the  poor.  He  often  goes 
afoot  where  his  business  calls  him,  and  at  the  end  of  his  wulk 
has  given  a  shilling,  which  in  his  ordinary  methods  of  expense 
irould  have  gone  for  coach-hire,  to  the  first  necessitous  per- 
MD  that  has  fallen  in  his  way.  I  have  known  him,  when  he 
ba  been  going  to  a  play  or  an  opera,  divert  the  money  which 
«8  designed  for  that  purpose,  upon  an  object  of  charity 
whom  he  has  met  with  iu  the  street ;  and  afterwards  pass 
Ua  evening  in  a  coffee-house,  or  at  a  friend's  fireside,  with 
b  greater  satisfaction  to  himself  than  he  could  have  re- 
d  Irom  the  most  exquisite  entertainments  of  the  theatre. 

[  86  ADDISOir^  voRiral  1 

By  these  meons  lie  is  generous  without  irapoveriBhing 
eelf,  and  enjoys  hia  eetate  bymnking  it  the  property  of  o 

There  are  few  men  ao  cramped  in  their  private  affain 
may  not  he  charitahlo  after  thia  manner,  without  any 
vantage  to  themselves,  or  prejudice  to  their  fomilies. 
hut  Bometimea  aacriflcing  a  diveraien  or  eonveuience  I 
poor,  and  turning  the  UBual  courae  of  our  espenaea  ; 
better  channel.  This  is,  I  think,  not  only  the  moat  pr 
and  convenient,  but  the  moat  meritorious  piece  of  cl 
which  we  can  put  in  practice.  By  this  method  we  in 
measure  share  the  neceasitiea  of  the  poor  at  the  aami 
that  we  relieve  them,  and  make  ouraelvea  not  only 
patrons,  but  their  fellow- aufferera. 

Sir  Thomas  Brown,  in  the  laat  part  of  hia  Religio  Jk 
in  which  he  describes  his  charity  in  several  heroic  inatl 
and  with  a  noble  heat  of  aentiments  mentions  that  tq 
the  Proverbs  of  Solomon,  "  He  that  giveth  to  the  poor; 
eth  to  the  Lord :  "  "  There  is  more  rhetoric  in  that  on 
tence,"  aaya  he,  "  thau  in  a  hhrary  of  sermons  ;  and  ii 
if  thoae  sentences  were  underatood  by  the  reader  wit 
same  emphasis  as  they  are  delivered  by  the  autha 
needed  not  thoae  volumes  of  instructions,  but  migj 
honest  by  an  epitome." 

This  passage  of  Scripture  ia  indeed  wondei-fuUy  persti) 
hut  I  think  the  same  thought  ia  carried  much  imrther  \ 
'  Kew  Testament,  where  our  Saviour  tells  us  in  th»| 
pathetic  manner,  that  he  ahall  hereafter  regard  the  cW 
of  the  naked,  the  feeding  of  the  hungry,  and  the  visitj 
the  impriaoned,  aa  offices  done  to  himself,  and  reward) 
accordingly.  Pursuant  to  those  paasagea  in  Holy  Sera 
I  have  somewhere  met  with  the  epitaph  of  a  charitablff 
which  has  very  much  pleased  me.  I  cannot  recolleffl 
words,  but  the  sense  of  it  is  to  this  purpose :  "  "What  I( 
I  lost :  what  I  poaaeased  ia  left  to  others  ;  what  I  gavei 
remains  with  me." 

Since  I  am  thus  insenaibly  engaged  in  sacred  writ,  I 
not  forbear  making  an  extract  of  several  passages  whj 
have  always  read  with  great  delight  in  the  oook  of  Jol^ 
is  the  account  which  that  holy  man  gives  of  hia  behai 
iu  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  and  if  considered  only  as  i 
jnan  compoaition,  is  a  nner  picture  of  a  charitable  and  | 
I   natured  man  than  is  to  be  met  with  in  any  other  autha 


"Oh.  that  I  ■vrere  as  in  months  past,  bb  in  the  days  when 
1  preserved  me:  when  his  candle  shined  upon  my  head, 
nd  when  hy  his  light  I  walked  through  dai-knesB :  when  the 
'mighty  was  yet  with  me :  when  my  children  were  about 
):  when  I  washed  my  steps  with  butter,  and  the  rock 
cured  out  rivers  of  oil. 
"  WTien  the  ear  heard  me,  then  it  bleaaed  me ;  and  when 
e  eye  saw  me  it  gave  witness  to  me.  Because  1  delivered 
e  poor  that  cried,  and  the  fatherless,  and  him  that  had 
me  to  help  him.  The  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to 
Tisfa  came  upon  me,  and  I  caused  the  widow's  heart  to 
mg  for  joy.  I  was  eyes  to  the  blind,  and  feet  was  I  to  the 
■me;  I  waa  a  father  to  the  poor,  and  the  cause  which  I 
Slew  not,  I  searched  out.  Did  I  not  weep  for  him  that  was 
:ia  trouble,  was  not  my  soul  grieved  for  tlie  poov  ?  Let  me 
ighed  in  an  even  balance,  that  G-od  may  know  mine 
Btegrity.  If  1  did  despise  the  cause  of  my  man-serviuit  or 
ift  my  maid-servant  when  they  contended  with  me ;  what 
%en  shall  I  do  when  God  riseth  up  ?  and  when  he  visiteth, 
that  shall  I  answer  him  ?  Did  not  he  that  mode  me  in  the 
nmb,  make  him  ?  and  did  not  one  fashion  ua  in  the  womb  ? 
tf  I  have  withheld  the  poor  from  their  desire,  or  have 
e  eyes  of  the  widow  to  fail,  or  have  eaten  my 
Honel  myaelf'^alone,  and  the  fatherless  hath  not  eat«n  there- 
if  I  nave  seen  any  perish  for  want  of  clothing,  or  any 
■without  covering:  if  hie  loins  have  not  blessed  nie,  and 
(he  ■were  not  warmed  with  the  fleece  of  my  sheep :  if  I 
Vie  lift  up  my  hand  against  the  fatherless  when  I  saw  my 
"■'  'ithe^te;  then  iefc  mine  arm  fall  from  my  shoulder- 
.  and  mine  arm  be  broken  from  the  bone.  If  I  have 
qoiced  at  the  destruction  of  him  that  hated  me,  or  lift 
p  myself  when  evil  found  him ;  (neither  have  I  sufi'ered 
if  month  to  sin,  by  wishing  a  curse  to  his  soul.)  The 
ttauger  did  not  lodge  in  the  street ;  but  I  opened  my  doors 
» the  traveller.  If  my  land  cry  against  me,  or  thatthefiir- 
nre  likewise  thereof  complain :  if  I  have  eaten  the  ftnita 
bnreof  without  money,  or  have  caused  the  owners  thereof  to 
"^  their  life :  let  thistles  grow  instead  of  wheat,  and  cockle 
sad  of  barley.' 


No.  179.    TXrESDAY,  SEPTEMBEK  25 

.  n  ftgitimt  eipertin  fttigJs ; 
.Ceisi  pntereunt  austeni  poamala  Bliarnnea. 
Omne  lulit  punctum  qui  misctiit  utile  duici, 
Lectorem  delectando,  purilerque  monendo.  Hor. 
I  MAT  cast  my  readers  under  two  general  dirisioTii 
Mercurial  and  the  Saturnine.  The  first  are  the  gay  pt 
my  disciples,  who  require  speculations  of  wit  and  hun 
the  others  are  those  of  a  more  solemn  and  sober  turn 
find  no  pleasure  but  in  papers  of  morality  and  sound  I 
The  former  call  eyerytning  that  is  serious  stupid ;  th( 
ter  look  upon  everything  as  impertinent  that  is  ludio 
Were  I  always  grave,  one  half  of  my  readers  would  fi 
from  me :  were  I  always  merry,  I  should  lose  the  otbe; 
niake  it  therefore  my  endeavour  to  find  out  entertaiin( 
for  both  kinds,  and  by  that  means  perhaps  consult  the  ^ 
of  both,  more  than  I  should  do  md  I  always  write  t( 
particular  taste  of  either.  As  they  neither  of  them  \ 
what  I  proceed  upon,  the  sprightly  reader,  who  takes  id 
paper  in  order  to  be  diverted,  veir  often  finds  ha 
engaged  unawares  in  a  serious  and  profitable  course  of  t| 
ing  ;  as,  on  the  contrary,  the  thoughtful  man,  who  pel 
may  hope  to  find  something  solid,  and  fiill  of  deep  refleq 
is  very  often  insensibly  betrayed  into  a  fit  of  mirth.  ,] 
■word,the  reader  sits  down  to  my  entertainment  without  fa 
ing  his  bOl  of  fare,  and  has  therefore  at  least  the  plea 
of  hoping  there  may  be  a  dish  to  his  palate.  1 

I  must  confess,  were  I  left  to  myself,  I  would  rathea 
at  instructing  than  diverting;  but  nf  we  will  be  useful^ 
world,  we  must  taie  it  as  we  find  it.  Authors  of  pro& 
seyerity  discour^  the  looser  part  of  mankind  from  ha 
anything  to  do  with  their  writings.  A  man  must  have  vi 
in  him,  before  he  wiH  enter  upon  the  reading  of  a  Seneca  o 
Epictetua.  The  very  title  ot  a  moral  treatise  has  sometl 
in  it  austere  and  shacking  to  the  careless  and  inconaider 
For  this  reason  several  unthinking  persons  fall  in  my  \ 
who  would  give  no  attention  to  lectures  delivered  with  a 
ligiouB  seriousness  or  a  philosophic  gravity.  They  are 
snared  into  sentiments  of  wisdom  and  virtue  when  they 
not  think  of  it ;  and  if  by  that  means  they  arrive  on^ 
such  a  degree  of  consideration  as  may  dispose  them  to  lu 

to  more  studied  and  elaborate  diBcouraea,!  sh^  not  think 
my  speculationa  uaeleaa,  I  might  likewise  observe,  that  the 
gloominess  in  which  Bometimes  the  minds  of  the  best  men 
are  involved,  very  often  stands  in  need  of  auch  little  incite- 
ments to  mirth  and  laughter  as  are  apt  to  diBperee  melsn- 
oUoly,  and  put  our  faculties  in  good  humour.  To  which  some 
will  add,  that  the  British  climate  more  than  any  other  makes 
entertaisments  of  this  nature  in  a  manner  necessary. 

If  what  I  have  here  said  does  not  reooiuTOend,  it  will  at 
least  eicnae,  the  variety  of  my  speculationa.  I  would  not 
wiHingly  laiigh  but  in  order  to  instruct,  or  if  I  sometimes 
'  hil  in  tois  point,  when  my  mirth  ceases  to  be  instructive,  it 
I  ah^  never  cense  to  be  innocent.  A  scrupulous  conduct  in 
Ibis  particular  has,  perhaps,  more  merit  in  it  than  the  gener- 
^ty  of  readers  imagine  :  did  they  know  how  many  thoughts 
occur  ill  a  point  of  numour,  which  a  discreet  author  in  mo- 
desty  suppresscB  ;  how  many  strokes  of  raillery  present  them- 
selves, which  could  not  fail  to  please  the  ordmair  taste  of 
mankind,  but  are  stifled  in  their  birth  by  reason  of  some  re- 
mote tendency  which  they  carry  in  them  to  corrupt  the 
minds  of  those  who  read  them ;  did  they  know  how  many 
glances  of  ill-nature  are  industriously  avoided  for  fear  of 
doing  injury  to  the  reputation  of  another;  they  would  be  apt 
to  think  kindly  of  those  writers  who  endeavour  to  make 
themselves  diverting  without  being  immoral.  One  may  ap- 
ply to  these  authors  that  passage  in  Waller, 

Poeta  lose  half  the  praiso  ihej  would  huve  gat, 
Were  it  but  known  what  [he]'  discreetly  btot. 
Aa  nothing  is  more  easy  than  to  be  a  wit  with  all  the  above- 
mentioned  liberties,  it  requires  some  genius  and  invention  to 
appear  such  without  them. 

What  I  have  here  said  is  not  only  in  regard  to  the  public, 
but  with  an  eve  to  my  particular  correspondeut,  who  Las 
sent  me  the  following  letter,  which  I  have  castrated  in  some 
places  upon  these  considerations. 

"  SlK, 

Having  lately  seen  your  discourse  upon  a  match  of 
Dning,  I  cannot  forbear  giving  you  an  account  of  a  whist* 
;  match,  which,  with  many  others,  I  was  entertained  with 
rat  three  years  since  at  the  Bath.  The  prize  was  a  gu' 
B  tw  conferred  upon  the  ablest  whistler,  that  is,  on  litio 

ia.y  sick  upon  his  bed,  and  in  great  danger  of  bis  life  :  \ 
pierced  to  the  heart  at  the  news,  and  could  not  forbear] 
to  inquire  after  his  health.  My  mother  took  thia  opport 
of  speaking  in  my  behalf:  she  told  him,  with  abundM 
t«arB,  that  I  was  come  to  Bee  him,  that  I  could  not  spa 
her  for  weeping,  and  that  I  should  certainly  break  my 
if  he  refused  at  that  time  to  give  me  his  blessing,  aa 
reconciled  to  me.  He  was  so  far  from  relenting  toward 
that  he  bid  her  speak  no  more  of  me,  unless  she  had  a 
to  disturb  him  in  his  iaat  moments  ;  for,  sir,  you  must  ] 
that  he  has  the  reputation  of  an  honest  aud  religious 
which  makes  my  misfortune  so  much  the  greater.  Qs 
thanked,  he  is  since  recovered  -,  hut  his  severe  usage  hasj 
me  such  a  blow,  that  I  shall  soon  sink  under  it,  unless  I 
be  relieved  by  any  impressions  which  the  reading  of  tb 
your  paper  may  make  upon  him. 

"  I  am,"  i 

Of  all  hardnesses  of  heart,  there  is  none  so  inescusali 
that  of  parenta  towards  their  children.  An  obstinate,  ilj 
ihle,  unforgiving  temper  is  odious  upon  all  occasions, 
here  it  is  unnatural.  The  love,  tenderness,  and  compa 
which  are  apt  to  arise  in.  us  towards  those  who  depend  1 
ns,  is  that  by  which  the  whole  world  of  life  is  upheld.  . 
Supreme  Being,  by  the  transcendent  eioeDency  and  good 
of  his  nature,  extends  his  mercy  towards  all  his  works  ji 
because  his  creatures  have  not  such  a  spontaneous  benevcj 
and  compassion  towards  those  who  are  under  their  care 
protection,  be  has  implanted  in  them  an  instinct,  that  supl 
the  place  of  this  inherent  goodness.  I  have  illustrateoi 
kind  of  instinct  in  former  papers,  and  have  shown  hO 
runs  through  all  the  species  of  orute  creatures,  as  indeed 
whole  animal  creation  subsists  by  it.  )' 

This  instinct  in  man  is  more  general  and  uncircumaosf 
than  in  brutes,  as  being  enlarged  by  the  dictates  of  itt 
and  duty.  For  if  we  consider  ourselves  attentively,  we  I 
find  that  we  are  not  only  inclined  to  love  those  who  deat 
from  us,  but  that  we  bear  a  kind  of  {oropyi),  or)  natura] 
fection  to  everything  which  relies  upon  us  for  its  good 
preservation.  Dependence  is  a  perpetual  call  upon  humaj 
and  a  greater  incitement  to  tenderness  and  pity  than  j 
other  motive  whatsoever.  ; 


The  mnii  therefore  who,  notwithataiidinf;  any  passion  ot 
KKiitmeut,  can  overcome  thia  powerful  instinct,  and  ei- 
finguieh  nattirsl  aA'ectiou,  debases  his  mind  even  below 
brutality,  fi-ustratea,  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  the  great  design 
sf  Providence,  and  strikes  out  of  his  nature  one  of  the  most 
lliTine  principles  that  is  planted  in  it. 
Among  innumerable  arguments  which  might  be  brought 
gainst  Bucb  an  unreasonable  proceeding,  I  shall  only  insist 
B  one.  "We  make  it  the  condition  of  our  forgiveness  that 
iW  forgive  others.  In  our  very  prayers  we  desire  no  more 
lliBii  to  be  treated  by  this  kind  of  retaliation.  The  case 
fiicrefore  before  us  seems  to  be  what  they  call  a  case  in  point  t 
fite  relation  between  the  child  and  father  being  what  comes 
beu^st  to  that  between  a  creature  and  its  Creator.  If  the 
ikllier  is  inexorable  to  the  cbUd  who  has  offended,  let  the 
e  be  of  never  so  high  a  nature,  how  will  he  address  him- 
islf  to  the  Supreme  Being,  under  the  tender  appellation  of  a 
Father,  and  desire  of  him  such  a  forgiveness  as  he  himself 
Cfuses  to  grant  ? 
To  this  1  might  add  many  other  religious,  as  well  as  many 
rudentdal,  considerations  ;  but  if  the  last- mentioned  motive 
1  not  prevail,  I  despair  of  succeeding  by  any  other,  and 
\  therefore  conclude  my  paper  with  a  very  remarkable 
tory,  wbich  is  recorded  in  an  old  chronicle  published  by 
^^er  among  the  writers  of  the  Gierman  history. 
Eginbart,  who  was  secretary  to  Charles  the  Great,  became 
xceeding  popular  by  his  behaviour  in  that  post.  Hia 
— %  abilities  gained  him  the  favour  of  his  master,  and  the 
an  of  the  whole  court.  Imma,  the  daughter  of  the  em. 
leror,  was  so  pleased  with  bis  person  and  converaation,  that 
he  fell  in  love  with  him.  As  she  was  one  of  the  grentest 
.  eantdea  of  the  ago,  Eginbart  answered  her  with  a  more  than 
equal  return  of  passion.  They  stiQed  their  flames  for  some 
tune,  under  apprehension  of  the  fatal  consequences  that 
might  ensue.  Eginhart  at  length  resolving  to  hazard  all,  ra> 
thOT  than  live  deprived  of  one  whom  his  heart  was  so  much 
•et  upon,  conveyed  himself  one  night  into  the  princess's 
apartment,  and  knocking  gently  at  tbe  door,  was  admitted  as 
k  person  who  bad  something  to  communicate  to  ber  from 
the  emperor.  He  was  with  her  in  private  moat  part  of  the 
nigUt ;  out  upon  his  preparing  to  go  away  about  break  of 
day,  be  observed  that  there  had  thllen  a  great  snow  duriof 


in  &  full  aaaemltly,  Pallaa  ia  only  another  name  for  reason, 
which  checks  and  advises  him  upon  that  occasion ;  and  at  her 
first  appearance  touches  him  upon  the  head,  that  part  of  the 
man  bemg  looked  upon  as  the  seat  of  reason.  Aui  thus  of 
the  rest  of  the  poem.  As  for  the  Odyssey,  I  think  it  is  plain 
that  Horace  considered  it  as  one  of  these  ^egorical  fables, 
by  the  moral  which  he  haa  given  ua  of  several  parts  of  it. 
ITie  greatest  Italian  wits  have  applied  themaelvea  to  the 
writing  of  this  latter  kind  of  lables;  as  Spencer's  Faery  Queen 
is  one  continued  series  of  them  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  that  admirable  work.  If  we  look  into  the  finest  prose 
authors  of  antiquity,  such  as  Cicero,  Plato,  Xenophon,  and 
many  others,  we  ahall  find  that  this  was  likewiae  their  fa- 
vourite kind  of  fable.  I  shall  only  further  observe  upon  it, 
that  the  first  of  this  sort  that  made  any  considerable  figure 
in  the  world,  was  that  of  Hercules  meeting  with  Pleasure 
and  Virtue  ;  which  was  invented  by  Prodicua,  who  lived  before 
Socrates,  and  in  the  first  dawnings  of  philosophy.  He  used 
to  travel  through  Greece  by  virtue  of  this  faole,  which  pro- 
cured him  a  kind  reception  in  aD  the  market  towns,  ■where 
he  never  lailed  telling  it  as  soon  as  he  had  gathered  an  audi- 
ence about  him. 

After  this  short  preface,  which  I  have  made  up  of  such 
materials  as  my  memory  does  at  present  suggest  to  me,  be- 
fore I  present,  my  reader  with  a  fable  of  this  kind,  which  I 
design  as  the  entertainment  of  the  present  paper,  I  must  in 
a  few  words  open  the  occasion  of  it. 

In  the  account  which  Plato  gives  vs  of  the  conversation 
and  behaviour  of  Socrates,  the  morning  he  was  to  die,  he  tella 
the  following  circumstance. 

"When  Socrates  his  fetters  were  knocked  off,  (as  waa  usual 
to  be  done  on  the  day  that  the  condemned  person  was  to  be 
executed,)  being  seat«d  in  the  midst  of  his  disciples,  and  lay- 
ing one  of  his  legs  over  the  other,  in  a  very  unconcerned 
posture,  he  began  to  rub  it  where  it  had  been  galled  by  the 
iron;  and  whether  it  wa^  to  show  the  indifference  with 
which  he  entertained  the  thoughts  of  his  approaching  death, 
or  (after  his  usual  manner)  to  take  ereir  occasion  of  philoso- 
phizing upon  some  useful  subject,  he  observed  the  pleasure 
of  that  sensation  which  now  arose  in  those  very  parts  of  hia 
le^,  that  just  before  had  been  so  much  pained  by  the  fetter. 
Upon  this  he  reflected  on  the  nature  of  pleasure  imd  pain  in 

Ko.  193. 



general,  and  how  constantly  they  succeed  one  another.  To 
th^  he  added,  that  if  a  man  of  a  good  genius  for  a  fable,  were 
to  reprcBent  the  nature  of  pleasure  and  pain  in  that  way  of 
*ritiiig,  he  would  probably  join  them  together  afler  Biich  » 
lanner.  that  it  would  be  impoBaibte  for  the  one  to  come  into 
QT  place  without  being  followed  by  the  other. 
It  is  possible,  that  if  Plato  had  thought  it  proper  at  inch 
_  time  to  deBcribe  Socrates  launching  out  into  a  discourse 
which  was  not  of  a  piece  with  the  bueincsB  of  the  day,  be 
irould  have  enlarged  upon  this  hint,  and  have  drawn  it  out 
into  some  beautiful  allegory  or  fable.  But  since  he  has  not 
done  it,  I  shall  attempt  to  write  one  myself  in  the  spirit  of 
divine  author. 

There  were  two  families,  which  from  the  beginning  of  the 
world  were  as  opposite  to  each  other  as  li";ht  and  darkness, 
The  one  of  them  lived  in  Heaven,  and  the  other  in  Hell. 
The  youngest  descendant  of  the  first  family  was  Pleaaiu«, 
who  was  the  daughter  of  Happiness,  who  was  the  child  of 
Tiitue,  who  was  the  offspring  of  the  Gods.  These,  as  I  said 
1)efore,  had  their  habitation  in  Heaven.  The  youngest  of 
the  opposite  family  was  Pain,  who  was  the  son  of  Misery,  ' 
who  was  the  chUd  of  Vice,  who  was  the  oiTspring  of  the 
IVriee.     The  habitation  of  this  race  of  beings  was  in  Hell. 

"  The  middle  station  of  nature  between  these  two  opposite 
extremes  was  the  earth,  which  was  inhabited  by  creatures  of 
m  middle  kind,  neither  so  virtuous  as  the  one  nor  so  vicious 
>t8  the  other,  but  partaking  of  the  good  and  bad  quahties  of 
these  two  opposite  families.  Jupiter  considering  that  this 
species,  commonly  called  Man,  was  too  virtuous  to  be  miser- 
able, and  too  vicious  to  be  happy,  that  he  might  make  a  dis- 
tinction between  the  good  and  the  bad,  ordered  the  two 
youngest  of  the  above-mentioned  families.  Pleasure,  who  was 
the  daughter  of  Happiness,  and  Pain,  who  was  the  son  of 
Misery,  to  meet  one  another  upon  this  part  of  nature  which 
by  in  the  half-way  between  them,  having  promised  to  settle 
it  upon  both,  provided  they  could  agree  upon  the  division 
of  it,  BO  as  to  share  mankind  between  them. 

"  Pleasure  and  Pain  were  no  sooner  met  in  their  new  ha- 
bitation, but  they  immediately  agreed  upon  this  point,  that 
Pleasure  should  take  possession  of  the  virtuous,  and  Pain  at 
the  viciouB,  part  of  that  species  which  was  given  up  to  them 


But  upon  examining  to  which  of  them  any  individual  they 
■net  with  belonged,  they  found  each  of  them  had  a  right  to 
him ;  for  that,  contrary  to  what  they  had  Been  in  their  old 
places  of  reeidence,  there  waa  no  person  so  TOiouB  who  had 
not  Bome  good  in  him,  nor  any  person  so  virtuous  who  had 
not  in  him  some  evil.  The  truth  of  it  is,  they  generally  found, 
upon  Beareh,  that  in  the  most  Ticious  man  Pleaaure  might 
lay  claim  to  an  hundredth  port,  and  that  in  the  most  virtuous 
man,  Pain  might  come  in  for  at  least  two-thirds.  This  they 
saw  would  occasion  endless  disputes  hetween  them,  unless 
they  could  come  to  some  accomraodatioa.  To  this  end  there 
waa  a  marriage  proposed  "between  them,  and  at  length  eou> 
eluded :  by  this  means  it  is  that  we  find  Pleasure  and  Pain 
are  such  constant  yoke-fellows,  and  that  they  either  make 
their  visits  together,  or  are  never  far  asunder.  If  Pain  comes 
into  an  heart,  he  is  quickly  followed  by  Pleaaure ;  and  if 
Pleasure  enters,  you  may  he  sure  Pain  is  not  far  off. 

"  But,  notwithstanding  lihis  marriage  was  very  convenient 
for  the  two  parties,  it  did  not  seem  to  answer  the  intention 
of  Jupiter  in  sending  them  among  mankind.  To  remedy, 
thereiore,  this  inconvenience,  it  was  atipuhited  between  them 
by  article,  and  confirmed  by  the  consent  of  each  family,  that 
notwithstanding  they  here  possessed  the  species  indifferently, 
upon  the  death  of  every  single  person,  if  he  waa  found  to 
have  in  him  a  certain  proportion  of  evil,  he  should  be  de- 
spatched into  the  infernal  regiona  by  a  passport  from  Pain, 
there  to  dwell  with  Miaerv,  "Vice,  and  the  Furies.  Or,  on 
the  contraiy,  if  he  had  in  him  a  certain  proportion  of  good, 
he  should  be  despatched  into  Heaven  by  a  passport  from 
Fteaaure,  there  to  dwell  with  Happiness,  Virtue,  and  the 

No.  184.    MONDAT,  OCTOBEE  1. 

— Opete  ill  longo  fas  eat  obrepcre  aomnun].  Hon, 
"When  a  man  has  discovered  a  new  vein  of  htunour,  it 
often  earriea  him  much  further  than  he  espectcd  from  it. 
My  corre^ondents  take  the  liint  1  give  them,  and  pursue  it 
into  speculations  which  I  never  thought  of  at  my  first  start- 
ing it.  This  has  been  the  fate  of  my  paper  on  the  match  of 
grinning,  which  has  already  produced  a  second  paper  on 


parallel  aubjects,  and  brought  me  the  following  letter  by  tlie 
last  post.  I  sball  not  premise  anij'thmg  to  it  further,  than 
that  it  is  built  on  matter  of  fact,  and  is  as  follows. 


Tou  have  already  obliged  tie  world  with  a  discourse 
upon  Grinning,  and  have  sinee  proceeded  to  Whistling,  from 
imence  you  at  length  came  to  Yawning ;  from  this,  I 
think,  you  may  make  a  very  natural  transition  to  Sleeping. 
I  therefore  recoimnend  to  you  for  the  subject  of  a  paper 
the  following  advertisement,  which  about  two  months  ago  was 
given  into  everybody's  hands,  and  may  be  seen  with  some 
additions  in  the  Daily  Courant  of  August  the  ninth. 

"Nicholas  Hart,  who  slept  last  year  in  St.  Bartholomew^' s 
Hospital,  intends  to  sleep  this  year  at  the  Cock  and  Bottle 
in  Little  Britain. 
[       "  Having  since  inquired  into  the  matter  of  fact,  I  find  that 
L  the  above-mentioned  Kichohis  Hart  is  every  year  seized  with 
Kk  periodical  fit  of  sleeping,  which  begins  upon  the  fifth  of 
BAtiriinl.  and  ends  on  the  eleventh  of  the  same  month :  That, 
V    On  the  first  of  that  month,  he  grew  dull ; 
W     On  the  second,  appeared  drowsy ; 
'       On  the  third,  fell  a  yawning ; 
I        On  the  fourth,  began  to  nod ; 
On  the  filth,  dropped  asleep  ; 
Oq  the  sixth,  was  neard  to  snore ; 
On  the  seventh,  turned  himself  in  his  bed ; 
On  the  eighth,  recovered  his  former  posture ; 
On  the  ninth,  fell  a  stretching  ; 
On  the  tenth,  about  midnight,  awaked ; 
On  the  eleventh,  in  the  morning,  called  for  a  little  Bmall- 

"  This  account  I  have  extracted  out  of  the  jonmal  of  this 
Y  a  gentleman 
a  historiogra- 
pher. I  have  sent  it  to  you,  not  only  as  it  represents  the 
•etions  of  Nicholas  Hart,  but  as  it  seems  a  very  natural  pic- 
ture of  the  life  of  many  an  houestlEnglish  gentleman,  whose 
»hole  history  very  often  consists  of  yawning,  nodding,  stretch- 
ing, turning,  sleeping,  drinking,  and  the  like  extraordinary 
puticulnrs.  I  do  not  question,  sir,  that  if  you  pleased,  you 
could  put  out  an  advertisement,  not  unlike  the  above-men- 

tioned,  of  BereraJ  men  of  figure ;  that  Mr.  John  Scch-a-on 
gentleman,  or  Thomas  Sucfi-a-one,  esquire,  who  slept  in  tl 
country  last  aummer,  intends  to  sleep  in  town  this  winte 
The  worst  of  it  is,  that  the  drowsy  part  of  our  species 
chiefly  made  up  of  very  honest  gentlemen,  who  live  quiet 
among  their  neighb ours,  without  ever  disturbing  the  puhl 
peace ;  they  are  drones  without  stings.  I  could  heartily  wii 
that  several  turbulent,  reatlesB,  ambitioua  Bpirita,  would  foi 
while  change  places  with  theae  good  men,  and  enter  themselv 
into  Nicholas  Hart's  fiatemity.  Could  one  but  lay  aslei 
a,  few  busy  heads,  which  I  coiJd  name,  from  the  first  of  N 
vember  nest  to  the  first  of  May  ensuing,  I  question  not  b 
it  would  very  much  redound  to  the  quiet  of  particular  persoi 
as  well  as  to  the  benefit  of  the  public. 

"  But  to  return  to  Nicholas  Hart :  I  believe,  sir,  you  w 
think  it  a  very  eitraordinary  circiunstanc^  for  a  man  to  gt 
bia  livelihood  by  sleeping,  mid  that  rest  should  procure  a  m 
aiatenaiice  as  well  as  induatry  ;  yet  ao  it  is  that  Nicholas  g 
last  year  enough  to  support  himself  for  a  twelvemonth- 
am  liiewiae  informed  that  he  has  this  year  had  a  very  oo 
fortable  nap.  The  poets  value  themaelvea  very  much  ; 
sleeping  on  Pamasaua,  but  I  never  heard  they  got  a  groat 
it :  on  the  contrary,  our  friend  Nicholfta  geta  more  by  da 
ing  than  be  could  by  working,  and  may  be  more  props 
said,  than  ever  Homer  was,  to  have  had  golden  dreams.  ■ 
venal,  indeed,  mentions  a  drowsy  husband,  who  raised 
estate  by  snoring,  but  then  he  is  represented  to  have  sL 
what  the  common  people  call  dog'a  sleep ;  or,  if  his  sleep  i 
real,  his  wife  was  awake,  and  about  her  business.  Tour  p 
which  loves  to  moralize  upon  all  subjects,  mav  raise  somethi 
methinks,  on  this  circumstance  also,  and  pomt  out  to  us  th 
sets  of  men,  who,  instead  of  growing  rich  by  an  honest 
dustry,  recommend  themselves  to  the  favours  of  the  gn 
by  making  themselves  agreeable  companions  in  the  pari 
pations  of  luiurv  and  pleasure. 

"  I  must  further  acquaint  you,  air,  that  one  of  the  ta 
eminent  pens  in  Grub  Street  is  now  employed  in  writing' 
dream  ot  this  miraculous  sleeper,  which  I  hear  will  hfl 
more  than  ordinary  length,  as  it  must  contain  all  the  pai 
cuiarsthat  are  supposed  to  have  pasaed  in  his  imaginsl 
during  so  long  a  sleep.  He  ia  said  to  have  gone  alrS 
through  three  days  and  three  nights  of  it,  and  to  ll 

comprised  in  them  tLe  moat  remarkable  passages  of  tbe 
fonr  first  empires  of  the  world.     If  Le  can  keep  free  from 

irty-Btrokes,  his  work  may  be  of  nse ;  but  tniB  I  much 
mbt,  hsTing  been  informed  by  one  of  his  friends  and  confi- 
intH,  that  he  has  spoken  some  things  of  Nimrod  with  too 
ifat  freedom. 

"  I  am  ever,  sir,"  &c. 

No.  185.    TUESDAY,  OCTOBER  2. 

— Tantiene  animis  ctelestibus  ir 
Thxbe  is  nothing  in  which  n 


^  deceive  themselvea 

P^tiun  in  what  the  world  call  zeal.  There  are  so  many  pasaions 
which  hide  themselves  under  it,  and  so  many  mischiefs  arising 
a  it,  that  aome  have  gone  ao  far  as  to  say  it  would  have 
a  for  the  benefit  of  mankind  if  it  had  never  been  reckoned 
fat  the  catalogue  of  virtues.  It  is  certain,  where  it  ia  onee 
bodable  and  prudential,  it  ia  an  hundred  times  criminal  and 
\  trroneoua ;  nor  can  it  be  otherwise,  if  we  consider  that  it 
operates  with  equal  violence  in  all  religions,  however  opposite 
they  may  be  to  one  another,  and  in  all  the  subdivisions  of 
each  religion  in  particular. 

We  are  told  bjr  some  of  the  Jewish  Eabbins,  that  the  first 
murder  was  occaaioned  by  a.  religious  controversy  ;  and  if  we 
had  the  whole  history  of  zeal  from  the  days  of  Cain  to  our 
own  times,  we  should  see  it  filled  with  so  many  scenes  of 
slaughter  and  bloodshed,  as  would  moke  a  vise  man  very 
_"C8r^i]  how  he  suffers  himself  to  be  actuated  by  such  a  prin- 
"^le,  when  it  only  regards  matters  of  opinion  and  specu- 

I   would  have   every   zealous   man  examine  his    heart 
'  ■      "  '  ly,  and,  I  believe,  he  will  often  find,  that  what  he 
a  seal  for  his  religion,  is  either  pride,  interest,  or  ill-na- 
A  man  who  differs  from  another  in  opinion,  sets  himself 
s  him  in  his  own  judgment,  and  in  several  particulars 
mda  to  be  the  wiser  person.    This  is  a  great  provocation 
e  proud  man,  aad  ^ves  a  keen  edge  to  what  he  caUs  hia 
And  that  this  is  the  case  very  oi^en,  we  may  observe 
e  behaviour  of  aome  of  the  most  zealous  for  ortho- 
r,  who  have  often  great  friendships  and  intimacies  with 
IB,  immoral  men,  provided  they  do  but  agree  with  tbem 



in  tte  same  scheme  of  belief.  The  reason  ia,  because  tha 
vicious  believer  givea  the  precedency  to  the  virtuoixs  mftn, 
and  allows  the  good  Christian  to  he  the  worthier  person,  at 
the  same  time  that  he  cannot  come  up  to  hia  perfections. 
This  we  find  esemplifled  in  that  trite  passage  wtiich  we  see 
quoted  in  almost  eveij  ayat^m  of  ethics,  though  upon  — 
other  occaaion ; 

— Video  meliora  proboque, 
Deterioni  sequor — ■  Ovid. 

On  the  contrary,  it  is  certain,  if  our  zeal  were  true  and  ^ 
nuine,  we  should  be  much  more  angry  with  a  sinner  than 
B  heretic ;  since  there  are  several  cases  which  may  excuse 
the  latter  before  his  great  Judge,  but  none  wliich  can  excuse 
the  former. 

Intereat  is  likewise  a  tfreat  Jnflamer,  and  seta  a  man  on 
persecution  under  the  colour  of  zeal.  For  this  reason  we 
find  none  are  ho  forward  to  promote  the  true  worship  by  fire 
and  sword,  aa  thoae  who  hnd  their  present  account  in  it. 
But  I  shall  extend  the  word  interest  to  a  lai^er  meaning 
than  what  is  generally  given  it,  aa  it  relates  to  our  spii-itual 
safety  and  welfare,  aa  well  as  to  oor  temporal,  A  man  is 
glad  to  gain  numbera  on  hia  aide,  as  they  serve  to  strengthen 
him  in  hia  private  opinions.  Every  proaelyte  ia  like  a  new 
argmneut  for  the  eatabliakment  of  hia  faith.  It  makea  him 
believe  that  his  principlea  carry  conviction  with  them,  and 
are  the  more  likely  to  be  true,  when  be  finds  they  are  con- 
formable to  the  reason  of  others,  as  well  as  hia  own.  And 
that  this  temper  of  mind  deludes  a  man  very  often  into  an 
opinion  of  his  zeal,  may  appear  from  the  common  behaviour 
of  the  atheiat,  who  maintains  and  spreads  his  opinions  with 
as  much  heat  as  those  who  believe  they  do  it  only  oat  of  a 
passion  for  God's  glory. 

Ill-nature  ia  another  dreadful  imitator  of  zeal.  Many  a 
good  man  may  have  a  natural  rancour  and  malice  in  his 
Heart,  which  has  been  in  some  measure  quelled  and  subdued 
by  religion ;  but  if  it  finds  any  pretence  of  breaking  out, 
which  does  not  seem  to  him  inconaistent  with  the  duties  of 
a  Christian,  it  throws  off  all  restraint,  and  rages  in  its  full 
lury.  Zeal  is,  therefore,  a  great  ease  to  a  malicious  man,  by 
making  him  believe  he  does  God  service,  whilst  he  ia  gratify- 
ing the  bent  of  a  perverse,  revengeful  temper.  For  this  re* 
Bon  we  find,  that  most  of  the  massacres  and  devastation*    I 

^^^BaSi  THE   BPEOTATOB.  59'' 

^^^^B  have  been  in  the  world,  have  taken  their  rise  from  a 
IMBbub  pretended  7.eal. 

^*"  I  love  to  Bee  a  man  zealous  in  a  cood  matter,  and  eBpe> 
edally  when  his  zeal  showa  itself  for  aavanoing  morality,  and 
promoting  the  happineaa  of  mankind:  but  when  I  flad  the 
jnetnimentB  he  worlis  with  are  racks  and  gibbets,  galleys  and 
dungeons;  when  he  imprisons  men's  persons,  confiscates 
their  estates,  ruins  their  families,  and  bums  the  body  to  save 
the  soul ;  I  cannot  stick  to  pronounce  of  such  a  one,  that 
(whatever  he  may  think  of  hia  faith  and  religion)  his  faith  ia 
vain,  and  his  religion  unprofitable. 

After  having  treated  of  these  f^ae  zealots  in  religion,  I 
cannot  forbear  mentioning  a  monstrous  species  of  men,  who 
^^to -would  not  think  bad  any  existence  in  nature,  were  they 
HHh'to  be  met  with  in  ordinaiy  conversation,  I  mean  the 
^^Hpta  in  atheism.  One  would  tamcy  tbat  these  men,  though 
^^By  &U  short  in  every  other  respect  of  those  who  make  a 
Jnrneeaion  of  religion,  would  at  least  outshine  them  in  this 
particular,  and  be  exempt  from  that  single  fault  which  seems 
to  grow  out  ef  the  imprudent  fervours  of  religion :  but  so  it 
IB,  that  infidelity  is  propagated  with  as  much  fierceness  and 
contention,  wrath  and  indignation,  as  if  the  safety  of  mankind 
depended  upon  it.    There  is  something  so  ridiculous  and  per- 
verse in  this  kind  of  zealots,  that  one  does  not  know  how  to 
set  them  out  in  their  proper  colours.     They  are  a  sort  of 

r esters  who  are  eternally  upon  the  fret,  though  they  play 
nothing.  They  are  perpet-jaUy  teasing  their  friends  to 
come  over  to  them,  though  at  the  same  time  they  allow  tha^ 
neither  of  them  shall  get  anything  by  the  bargain.  In  short, 
the  zeal  of  spreading  atheism  is,  if  possible,  more  absurd 
than  atheism  itself. 

Rince  1  have  mentioned  this  unaccountable  zeal  which  ap- 
pears in  atheists  and  iniidels,  I  must  further  observe,  that 
(hey  are  likewise  in  a  most  particular  manner  possessed  with 
tiie  spirit  of  bigotry.  They  are  wedded  to  opinions  full  of 
wMitpadiction  and  imposaibiijty,  and  at  the  same  time  look 
upon,  the  smallest  difficulty  in  an  article  of  faith  as  a  suffi.- 
aeiit  reason  for  rejecting  it.  ^Notions  that  fall  in  with  tie 
common  reason  of  mankind,  that  are  conformable  to  the 
wnse  of  all  ages  and  all  nations,  not  to  mention  their  tend- 
oicy  for  promoting  the  happiness  of  societies,  or  of  particular 
persons,  ore  exploded  as  errors  and  prejudices ;  and  schemea 


ADDIS0!f'9   WOBKS, 

erected  in  their  stead,  that  are  altogether  monstrous  and 
irrational,  and  require  the  moat  eitravagant  credulity  to  eni- 
hrace  them.  I  would  fain  ask  odc  of  these  higoted  infidels, 
suppoaing  all  the  great  points  of  atheism,  as  the  casual  or 
eternal  formation  of  the  world,  the  materiahty  of  a  thinking 
substance,  the  mortality  of  the  soul,  the  fortuitous  organiza- 
tion of  the  body,  the  motions  and  gravitation  of  matter,  with 
the  like  particulars,  were  laid  together  and  formed  into  a 
kind  of  creed,  according  to  the  opinions  of  the  most  cele- 
brated atheists ;  I  say,  supposing  such  a  creed  as  thia  vera 
formed,  and  imposeii  upon  any  one  people  in  the  world 
whether  it  would  not  require  an  infimtely  greater  measure 
of  faith,  than  any  set  of  articles  which  thej]  so  violently  op- 
pose. Let  me  therefore  advise  this  generation  of  wranglers, 
tor  their  own  and  for  the  public  gooa,  to  act  at  least  so  cod- 
sistently  with  themselves,  as  not  to  bum  with  zeal  for  irre' 
ligion,  and  with  bigotry  for  nonsense. 

No.  186.    "WEDNESDAY,  OCTOBER  S 

Cicluin  ipaiun  petitnus  stultitii —  Hor, 
Upoh"  my  return  to  my  lodgings  last  night,  I  found  a  let' 
ter  from  my  worthy  friend  the  clergyman,  whom  1  have  givei 
some  account  of  in  my  former  papers.  He  tells  me  in  it  tha 
he  was  particularly  pleased  witb  the  latter  part  of  my  yester 
day's  speculation ;  and  at  the  same  time  enclosed  the  follow 
insr  easay,  which  he  desires  me  to  publish  as  the  sequel  o 
that  discourse.  It  consists  partly  of  uncommon  reflection* 
and  partly  of  such  as  have  been  sdready  used,  but  now  set  h 
a  stronger  light. 

"  A  believer  may  be  excused  by  the  most  hardened  atht 
ist  for  endeavouring  to  make  nim  a  convert,  because  h 
does  it  with  an  eye  to  both  their  interests.  The  atheist  1 
inexcusable  who  tries  to  gain  over  a  believer,  because  he  doe 
not  propose  the  doing  himself  or  believer  any  good  by  sue! 
a  conversion. 

"  The  prospect  of  a  future  state  is  the  secret  comfort  an' 
refreshment  of  my  soul ;  it  is  that  which  makes  nature  lo<d 
gay  about  me ;  it  doubles  all  my  pleasures,  and  supports  q 
under  all  my  afflictions.  I  can  look  at  disappointments  aai 
misfortunes,  pain  and  sickness,  death  itself,  and  what  is  woi» 

than  death,  the  Iosb  of  those  who  Ere  dearest  to  me,  with  in- 

difference,  so  long  as  I  keep  in  view  the  pleasureB  of  eternity, 

9nd  the  state  of  being  in  which  there  will  be  no  fears  nor 

Mprehensions,  paina  nor  aorrowB,  sJcknesH  nor  separation. 

way  will  any  man  be  ho  impertinently  officious,  aa  to  tell 

)  ^  this  is  only  fancy  imd  delusion  ?     la  there  any  merit 

lieiiig  the  messenger  of  ill  news  ?     If  it  is  a  dream,  let  me 

jm  it,  since  it  makes  me  both  the  happier  and  better  man, 

*'I  most  confess  I  do  not  know  how  to  trust  a  man  who 

(elievee  neither  heaven  nor  hell,  or,  in  other  words,  a  future 

■tate  of  rewards  and  punishments.     Not  only  natural  self> 

lore,  but  reason,  directs  ns  to  promote  our  own  interest  above 

kU  things.    It  can  never  be  for  the  interest  of  a  beUever  to  do 

a  mischief,  because  he  is  sure  upon  the  balance  of  accounts 

lead  him  to  do  me  all  the  good  he  can,  and  at  the  same  time 
restrain  him  from  doing  me  an  injury.  An  unbeliever  does 
not  act  like  a  reasonable  creature,  if  he  favours  me  contrary 
to  his  present  interest,  or  does  not  distress  me  when  it  turns 
to  hia  present  advantage.  Honour  and  good-nature  may  in- 
deed tie  up  his  hands ;  but  as  these  would  be  very  much 
■trengthened  by  reason  and  principle,  so  without  them  they 
are  only  instincts,  or  wavering,  unsettled  notions,  which  rest 

10  foundations. 

Infidelity  has  been  (Attacked  with  so  good  success  of  late 
years,  that  it  is  driven  out  of  all  its  out-works.  The  atheist 
Ibs  not  found  hia  post  tenable,  and  ia  therefore  retired  into 
deiem,  and  a  disbelief  of  revealed  religion  only.  But  the 
truth  of  it  is,  the  greatest  number  of  this  set  of  men  are 
thoBe  who,  for  want  of  a  virtuous  education,  or  esamining  the 
grounds  of  religion,  know  bo  very  little  of  the  matter  in 
Question,  that  their  infidelity  is  but  another  term  for  their 

"  As  folly  and  inconaideratenesa  are  the  foimdations  of  in- 
fidelity, the  great  pillars  and  supports  of  it  are  either  a  vanity 
of  spearing  wiser  than  the  rest  of  mankind,  or  an  ostenta- 
tion of  courage  in  despising  the  terrors  of  another  world, 
which  have  so  great  an  influence  on  what  they  cdl  weaker 
minds ;  or  an  aversion  to  a  beHef  that  must  cut  them  off  from 

ly  of  those  pleasures  they  propose  to  themselves,  and  fill 
them  with  remorae  for  many  ot  those  they  have  already  tasted. 


"  The  great  received  artielea  of  tUe  Christian  religion  liare 
been  bo  clearly  proTed  from  the  authority  of  that  divine 
revelation  in  which  they  are  delivered,  that  it  ia  impoasible 
for  thoae  who  have  ears  to  hear  and  eyes  to  eee,  not  to  be 
convinced  of  them.  But  were  it  poaaihle  for  anything  in  the 
Chriatian  laith  to  be  erroneous,  I  can  fiud  no  ill  conaeijnenees 
in  adhering  to  it.  The  great  pointa  of  the  incarnation  and 
sufferings  of  our  Saviour  produce  naturally  such  habits  of 
virtue  in  the  mind  of  maa,  that,  I  aay,  supposing  it  were 
possible  for  ua  to  be  mistaken  in  them,  the  infidel  himaelf 
must  at  least  allow  that  no  other  system  of  religion  could  ao 
effectually  contribute  to  the  heightening  of  morality.  They 
give  ufi  great  ideas  of  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  and  of 
the  love  which  the  Supreme  Bemg  bears  to  hia  creatures, 
and  consec[uently  engage  ua  in  the  highest  acts  of  duty  to- 
wards our  Creator,  our  neighbour,  and  ouraelvea.  How 
many  noble  argiunenta  baa  Saint  Paul  raised  from  the  chief 
articles  of  our  religion,  for  the  advancing  of  morality  in  its 
three  great  branches  !  To  give  a  single  example  in  each  kind: 
what  can  be  a  stronger  motive  to  a  firm  trust  and  reliance 
on  the  merciea  of  our  Jlaker,  than  the  giving  us  hia  Son  to 
Bufler  for  us  P  what  can  make  us  love  and  esteem  even  the 
most  inconsiderable  of  mankind  more  than  the  thought  that 
Christ  died  for  him  P  Or  what  dispose  us  to  a  stricter  guard 
upon  the  purity  of  our  own  hearts,  than  our  being  members 
of  Christ,  and  a  part  of  the  society  of  which  that  iionjaculate 
person  is  the  head  P  But  these  are  only  a  specimen  of  those 
admirable  enforcements  of  morality  which  the  apostle  has 
drawn  from  the  Ijistory  of  our  blessed  Saviour. 

"  If  oiu'  modem  infidels  considered  these  matters  with 
that  candour  and  seriousneaa  which  they  deserve,  we  should 
not  see  them  act  with  such  a  spirit  of  bittemesa,  arrogance, 
and  malice :  they  would  not  oe  raising  such  insignificwit 
cavUa,  doubta,  and  Bcruplea,  as  may  be  started  against  every- 
thing that  is  not  capable  of  mathematical  demonstration ;  in 
order  to  unsettle  the  minda  of  the  ignorant,  disturb  the  pub- 
lic peace,  subvert  morality,  and  throw  all  things  into  con- 
fusion and  disorder.  If  none  of  these  reflections  can  have 
any  influence  on  them,  there  is  one  that  perhaps  may  ;  be- 
cause it  is  adapted  to  their  vanity,  by  which  they  seem  to  be 
Cded  much  more  than  their  reason.  I  would  therefore 
e  thera  consider,  that  tfce  wisest  and  beat  of  men  in  all 

Ko.  ISB. 

ages  of  the  world,  haye  been  those  who  lived  up  to  the 
ligioa  of  their  country,  when  they  saw  nothing  in  it  opposite 
to  morality,  and  to  tlie  beet  lignta  they  had  of  the  IJivine 
Nature.  Pythagoras's  first  rule  directs  ua  to  worship  the 
gods  '  aa  it  IB  ordained  by  law,'  for  that  is  the  most  natural 
interpretation  of  the  precept.  Socrates,  who  was  the  moat 
renowned  among  the  heathens  both  for  wisdom  and  virtue,  in 
his  last  momenta  desires  hia  friends  to  offer  a  cock  to  jEscu- 
lapius ;  doubtless  out  of  a  submissive  deference  to  the  estab- 
liahed  worship  of  his  country.  Xenophon  tella  us,  that  hia 
prince  (whom  he  sets  forth  as  a  pattern  of  perfection)  when 
he  found  his  death  approaching,  offered  sacrifices  on  the 
mountains  to  the  Persian  Jupiter,  and  the  Sun,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  Persians ;  for  those  are  the  words  of  the 
historian.  Nay,  the  Epicureans  mid  atomical  philosophers 
showed  a  very  remarkaole  modesty  in  this  particular ;  for, 
though  the  being  of  a  God  was  entirely  repugnant  to  their 
schemes  ofnatural  philosophy,  they  contented  themselves  with 
the  denial  of  a  Providence,  assorting  at  the  same  time  the 
exiatenee  of  gods  in  general ;  because  they  would  not  shock 
the  conunon  belief  of  mankind,  and  the  religion  of  their 

No.  189.    SATUEDAT,  OCTOBEE  6. 

— Patiis  pielatia  imago.     Vino. 

The  following  letter  being  written  to  my  bookseller, 
upon  a  subject  of  which  I  treated  some  time  since,  I  shall' 
publish  it  in  this  paper,  together  with  the  letter  that  was  en- 
closed in  it. 

"  Mb.  Bucklet, 

Mr.  Speotatob  having  of  late  descanted  upon  the 
cruelty  of  parents  to  their  children,  I  have  been  induced  (at  the 
request  of  several  of  Mr.  Spectator's  admirers)  to  enclose 
thia  letter,  which  I  assure  you  is  the  original  from  a  father 
to  his  son,  notwithstanding  the  latter  gave  hut  little  or  no 
provocation.  It  would  be  wonderfully  obliging  to  the  world, 
if  Mr.  Spectatok  would  give  liis  opinion  of  it  in  some  of  his 
•peculations,  and  particularly  to 

(Mr.  Buckley)  Tour  humble  Servant." 


"  SiBBAH, 

Tou  are  a,  Baucy,  audacious  rascal,  and  both  fool  i 
mad,  and  I  care  not  a  farthing  whether  you  comply  or  i 
that  does  not  raze  out  my  impresaiona  of  your  insolence,  going 
about  railing  at  me,  and  the  next  day  to  aohcit  my  favour : 
these  are  inconsiateacies,  auch  as  discover  thy  reason  depraved. 
To  be  brief,  I  never  desire  to  see  your  face ;  and,  aurah,  if 
you  go  to  the  ■work-house,  it  is  no  disgrace  to  me  for  you  to 
be  supported  there ;  and  if  you  starve  in  the  streets,  I'll 
never  give  anything  underhand  in  your  behalf.  K  I  have 
any  more  of  your  scribbling  nonsense,  I  will  break  your  head 
the  first  time  I  set  sight  on  you.  Tou  are  a  stubborn  beast ; 
is  this  your  gratitude  for  my  giving  you  money  ?  Tou  rogue, 
I'll  better  your  judgment,  and  give  you  a  greater  sense  of  your 
duty  to  (I  regret  to  say)  Tour  father,  &c. 

"  P.  8.  It  is  prudence  for  you  to  keep  out  of  my  sight;  for 
to  reproach  me  that  might  overcomes  right,  on  the  outside  of 
your  letter,  I  shall  give  you  a  great  knock  on  the  skull  for  it." 

Was  there  ever  such  an  image  of  paternal  tenderness !  It 
was  usual  among  some  of  the  Greeks  to  make  their  slaves 
drink  to  eicess,  and  then  espose  them  to  their  children,  who 
by  that  means  conceived  an  early  aversion  to  a  vice  which 
makes  men  appear  so  moostrous  and  irrational.  I  have  ex- 
posed this  picture  of  an  unnatural  father  with  the  same  in- 
tention, that  its  deformity  may  deter  others  from  its  resem- 
blance. If  the  reader  has  a  mind  to  sec  a  father  of  the  same 
stamp  represented  in  the  most  exquisite  strokes  of  humour,  he 
may  meet  with  it  in  one  of  the  finest  comedies  that  ever  ap- 
peared upon  the  English  stage :  I  mean  the  part  of  Sir 
Sampson  in  Love  for  Love. 

I  must  not,  however,  engage  myself  blindly  on  the  side  of 
the  son,  to  whom  the  fond  letter  above-written  was  directed. 
His  father  calls  him  "  a  saucy  and  audacious  rascal "  in  the 
first  line ;  and  I  am  afraid,  upon  examination,  he  will  prove 
but  an  ungracious  youth.  "  To  go  about  raihng  "  at  his  father, 
and  to  find  no  other  place  lut  "  the  outside  of  his  letter  "  to 
tell  him"  that  might  overcomes  right,"  if  it  does  not"  dis- 
cover his  reason  to  be  depraved,"  and  "  that  he  ia  either  fool  or 
mad,"  as  the  choleric  old  gentleman  tells  him,  we  may  at 
least  allow  that  the  father  will  do  very  well  in  endeavouring 
to  "  better  his  judgment,  and  give  him  a  greater  sense  of  hii 

duty."  But  whether  thii  may  be  brought  about  by  "break- 
iag  his  head,"  or  "giving  him  a  great  knock  on  the  skuD," 
ought  I  think  to  be  well  coDHidered.  Upon  the  whole,  I 
■wish  the  father  hae  not  met  with  his  match,  and  that  he  may 
not  be  88  equally  paired  with  a  boo,  as  the  mother  in  VirgiL 
— Crudelia  to  qiioque  mater  ; 
CrudeliB  mater  mngis  an  puer  improbiia  ille  f 
Improbus  ille  puer,  erudelis  lu  quoque  mater. 

Or,  like  the  crow  and  her  egg  in  the  Greek  proverb, 

I  muBt  here  take  notice  of  a  letter  which  I  have  received 
rom  an  unknown  correspondent,  upon  the  subject  of  my 
paper,  upon  which  the  foregoing  letter  is  likewise  founded. 
uChe  writer  of  it  seems  very  much  concerned,  lest  that  paper 
(hould  seem  to  give  encouragement  to  the  disobedience  of 
diildren  towards  their  parents  ;  hut  if  the  writer  of  it  will 
take  the  pains  to  read  it  over  again  attentively,  I  dare  my 
hie  apprehension  will  vanish.  Pardon  and  reconciliation  are 
bII  the  penitent  daughter  requests,  and  all  that  1  contend  for 
in  ber  behalf;  and  in  this  case  1  may  uae  the  saying  of  an 
eminent  wit,  who,  upon  some  great  men's  pressing  him  to 
Ibrgive  hia  daughter  who  had  married  agaiust  his  consent, 
\  them  he  could  refuse  nothine  to  their  instances,  but 
ithat  he  would  have  them  remember  there  was  difference 
between  Giving  and  Torgiving. 

I  must  confess,  in  all  controversies  between  parents  and 
their  children,  I  am  naturally  prejudiced  in  favour  of  the 
former.  The  obligations  on  that  side  can  never  be  acquitted, 
i>nd  X  think  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  reflections  upon  human 
jaature,  that  paternal  instinct  shonld  be  a  stronger  motive  to 
love  than  filial  gratitude ;  that  the  receiving  of  favours  should 
te  a  less  inducement  to  good-will,  tenderness,  and  commiaer- 
ction,  than  the  conferring  of  them  ;  and  that  the  taking  care 
,  if  any  person  should  endear  the  chQd  or  dependant  more  to 
the  parent  or  benefactor,  than  the  parent  or  benefactor  to 
the  child  or  dependant ;  yet  so  it  happens,  that  for  one  cruel 
parent  we  meet  with  a  thousand  undutiful  children.  This 
ft,  indeed,  wonderfully  contrived  (as  I  have  formerly  ob- 
■erved)  for  the  support  of  every  living  species  j  but  at  the 
fl&me  time  that  it  shows  the  wisdom  of  tbe  Creator,  it  di^ 
eovers  the  imperfection  and  degeneracy  of  the  creature. 

The  obedience  of  cbildreu  i.o  their  parents  is  the  bosia  M 
all  goTernment,  and  is  set  forth  as  the  meaaure  of  that  ob^ 
dicnce  which  we  owe  to  those  whom  Providence  hath  placea 
over  ua. 

It  is  Father  Le  Comte,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  who  tells  ub 
how  want  of  duty  in  this  particular  is  punished  among  the 
Chinese,  inaomucn,  that  if  a  son  should  De  known  to  kill,  or 
Bo  much  aa  to  strike,  hia  fether,  not  only  the  criminal,  but 
his  whole  iitmily,  would  be  rooted  out;  nay,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  place  where  he  lived  would  be  put  to  the  sword  ;  nay, 
the  place  itself  would  be  razed  to  the  ground,  and  ita  found- 
ations sown  with  salt:  for,  say  they,  there  must  have  been 
an  utter  depravation  of  manners  in  that  clan  or  society  of 
people,  who  cotild  have  br^d  up  among  them  so  horrible  an 
offender.  To  this  I  shaU  add  a  paas^e  out  of  the  firet  book 
of  Herodotus.  That  historian,  in  his  account  of  the  Peraian 
euatoms  aud  religion,  tells  us,  it  is  their  opinion  that  no  mac 
ever  killed  his  lather,  or  that  it  is  possible  such  a  crime 
should  be  in  nature ;  but  that  if  anything  like  it  should 
ever  happen,  they  conclude  that  the  reputed  son  must  have 
been  illegitimate,  auppoaititious,  or  begotten  in  adultery. 
Their  opinion  in  this  particular  shows  sufficiently  what 
notion  they  must  have  had  of  undutifulneas  in  general. 

No.  191.    TUESDAY,  OCTOBEE  9 


— oiXov  OKipov.     Hon. 

So3£E  ludicrous  schoolmen  have  put  the  case,  that  if  ^._ 
were  placed  between  two  bundles  of  hay,  which  affected  ha 
senses  equally  on  each  side,  and  tempted  him  in  the  verv 
same  degree,  whether  it  would  be  possible  for  him  to  eat  of 
either.  They  generally  determine  this  question  to  the  dis- 
advantage of  the  ass,  who,  they  say,  would  starve  in  the 
midst  of  plenty,  as  not  having  a  single  grain  of  free-will  to 
determine  him  more  to  the  one  than  to  the  other.  The 
bundle  of  hay  on  either  side  striking  hia  sight  and  smell  in 
the  same  proportion,  wwild  keep  him  in  a  perpetual  suspense, 
like  the  two  magnets,  which  travellers  have  told  us  are 
placed  one  of  them  in  the  roof  aud  the  other  in  the  floor,  of 
Mahomet's  burying-place  at  Mecca,  and  by  that  means,  aay 
they,  pull  the  impoator'a  iron  coffin  with  such  an  equal  at- 


^on,  th&t  it  hangB  in  the  air  between  both  of  them.     Ah 

Ue  asa'a  behaviour  in  Bui;h  nice  circumatanceB,  whether 
F  would  atarve  sooner  than  violate  hia  neutrality  to  the 
two  bundles  of  hay,  I  shall  not  presume  to  determine ;  but 
only  take  notice  of  the  conduct  of  our  own  apeciea  in  the 
same  perplexity.  When  a  man  has  a  mind  to  venture  Lit 
money  in  a  lottery,  every  fig;ure  of  it  appears  equally  allur- 
ing, and  as  likely  to  auceeed  as' any  of  its  fellows.  !lTiey  all 
of  them  have  the  same  pretenfliona  to  good  luck,  stand  upon 
the  same  foot  of  competition,  and  uo  manner  of  reason  can 
be  given  why  a  man  should  prefer  one  to  the  other  before  the 
lottery  is  drawn.  In  this  case,  therefore,  caprice  very  often 
acta  in  the  place  of  reason,  and  forms  to  itself  some  ground- 
leu,  imaginary  motive,  where  real  and  substantial  ones  arc 
^"'''""^.  I  know  a,  well-meaning  man  that  is  very  well 
i  to  risk  hia  good  fortune  upon  the  number  1711,  be- 
^  it  is  the  year  of  our  Irord.  I  am  acquainted  with  a 
r  that  would  give  a  good  deal  for  the  number  134.  On 
llie  contrary,  I  have  been  told  of  a  certain  zealous  dissenter, 
who  being  a  great  enemy  to  Popery,  and  believing  that  bad 
men  are  the  most  fortunate  in  this  world,  will  lay  two  to  one 
oa  the  number  666  against  any  other  number,  because,  savs 
he,  it  IB  the  number  of  the  beast.  Several  would  prefer  the 
number  12,000  before  any  other,  as  it  is  the  number  of  the 
pounds  in  the  great  prize.  In  short,  some  are  pleased  to  find 
their  own  age  in  their  number  i  some  that  they  have  got  a 
number  which  makes  a  pretty  appearance  in  the  ciphers ; 
and  others,  because  it  is  the  same  number  that  aucceeaed  in 
the  last  lottery.  Each  of  these,  upon  no  other  grounds,  thinks 
hs  stands  fairest  for  the  great  lot,  that  he  is  possessed  of  what 
m^  not  be  improperly  called  the  Golden  Number. 

These  principles  of  election  are  the  pastimes  and  extravar 
KBiunes  of  hiunan  reason,  which  is  of  so  busy  a  nature,  that 
It  will  be  exerting  itself  in  the  meanest  trifles,  and  working 
eren  when  it  wants  materials.  The  wisest  of  men  are  some- 
times acted  by  such  unaccountable  motives,  as  the  life  of  the 
ibol  and  the  superstitious  is  guided  by  nothing  else. 

I  am  surprised  that  none  of  the  fortune-tollers,  or,  as  the 
Freooh  call  them,  the  DUeurs  de  bonne  Avantare,  who  publish 
their  bills  in  every  quarter  of  the  town,  have  turned  our  lot- 
teries to  their  advantage :  did  any  of  them  set  up  for  a 
eaeter  of  fortunate  figures,  what  might  he  notget  by  hia  pr^ 
tended  discoveries  and  predictions  ? 



I  remembe-T  among  tlie  advertisement  a  in  the  Post  boy  of 
September  the  27th,  I  was  surprised  to  see  the  following  one: 

"  This  is  to  give  notice,  that  ten  Bhillinga  over  and  above 
the  market  price  will  be  given  for  the  ticket  in  the  £150,000 
lottery,  No.  132,  by  Nath.  Cliff,  at  the  Bible  and  Three 
CrownB  in  Cheapside." 

Thifi  advertiflement  has  ei*en  great  matter  of  speculation 
to  Coffee-house  theorista.  Mr.  Cliff'B  princijles  and  convers- 
ation have  been,  canvassed  upon  this  occasion,  and  various 
conjectures  made  why  he  should  thua  set  his  heart  upon  No. 
182,  I  have  examined  nil  the  powers  in  those  numberB, 
broken  them  into  fractions,  extracted  the  square  and  cube 
root,  divided  and  multiplied  them  all  ways,  but  could  not  ar- 
rive at  the  secret  till  about  three  daya  ago,  when  I  received 
the  following  letter  from  an  unknown  hand,  by  which  I  find 
that  Mr.  Nathaniel  Cliff  is  only  the  agent,  and  not  the  prin- 
cipal, in  this  advertisement. 

"Mr,  Spectatob, 

"  I  am  the  person  that  lately  advertised  I  would  give  ten 
sbillings  more  than  the  current  price  for  the  ticket  No.  132, 
in  the  lottery  now  drawing ;  which  is  a  secret  I  have  com- 
municated to  some  friends,  who  rally  me  incessantly  upon 
that  account.  Ton  must  know  I  have  but  one  ticket,  for 
which  reason,  and  a  certain  dream  I  have  lately  had  more 
than  once,  I  was  resolved  it  should  be  the  nuinheF  I  most  ap- 
proved. I  am  BO  positive  I  have  pitched  upon  the  great  lot, 
that  I  could  almost  lay  all  I  am  worth  of  it.  My  visions  are 
BO  frequent  and  strong  upon  this  occasion,  that  I  have  not 
only  possessed  the  lot,  but  disposed  of  the  money  which  in 
all  probability  it  will  sell  for,  Thia  morning,  in  particular, 
I  set  up  an  equipage  which  I  look  upon  to  be  the  gayest  in 
the  town ;  the  liveries  are  very  rich,  but  not  gaudy.  1  should 
be  very  glad  to  seea  speculation  or  two  upon  lottery  subjects, 
in  which  you  would  obhge  all  people  concerned,  and  in  parti- 

"Tour  most  humble  Servant,  George  Gosling." 

"  P.  8.  Dear  Spec,  if  I  get  the  12,000  pound,  I'll  make 
thee  a  handsome  present." 

After  having  wished  my  correspondent  good  luck,  and 


.  1  him  for  hia  intended  kindnesB,  I  sball  for  this  tim»H 
IS  tte  subject  of  the  lottery,  and  only  observe,  that  theT 
at  part  of  mankind  are  in  some  degree  guilty  of  my  ' 
aiend  GosUng'a  eitravagance.  We  are  apt  to  rely  upon 
ftiture  prospects,  and  beeome  reaJly  espensive  whOe  we  are 
only  ri^  in  possibility.  We  live  up  to  our  expectations,  not 
to  our  poBsessione,  and  make  a  figure  proportionable  to  what 
we  may  be,  not  what  we  are.  We  out-run  our  present  income, 
Bfl  not  doubting  to  disburse  ourselves  out  of  the  profits  of 
some  ftiture  place,  project,  or  reversion,  that  we  have  in  view. 
It  18  through  this  temper  of  mind,  which  is  so  common  among 
ua,  that  we  see  tradesmen  break,  who  have  met  with  no  mia- 
fortiimea  in  their  business ;  and  men  of  estates  reduced  to 
rerty,who  have  never  Buffered  from  ioeses  or  repairs,  ten- 
B,  taxes,  or  law-suits.  In  short,  it  is  this  foolish,  sanguine 
per,  this  depending  upon  contingent  futurities,  that  occa- 
B  romantic  generosity,  chimerical  grandeur,  senseless  os- 
bation,  and  generally  ends  in  beggary  and  ruin.  The  man 
*howill  liveabove  his  present  circumstancea,  is  in  great  danger 
of  living  in  a  little  time  much  beneath  them ;  or,  sa  the  Italian 
proverb  nma.  The  Man  who  lives  by  Hope  wiE  die  by  Hunger. 
It  should  be  an  indispensable  rule  in  life,  to  contract  our 
deeiieB  to  our  present  condition ;  and  whatever  may  be  oup 
expectations,  to  live  within  the  compass  of  what  we  actually 
poaseae.  It  will  be  time  enough  to  enjoy  an  estate  when  it 
comes  into  our  bands ;  but  if  we  anticipate  our  good  fortune, 
we  shall  lose  the  pleasure  of  it  when  it  arrives,  and  may  pos- 
eibly  never  possess  what  we  have  so  foolishly  counted  upon. 

195.     SATITEDAT,  OCTOBEE  13. 

Oiil'  &aov  Iv  lusKAxV^  "ai  arr^oSkXiii  /«}■'  oviiap.     Hbs. 

Thehe  is  a  story  in  the  Arabian  Nights  Tales,  of  a  king 
who  had  long  languished  under  an  Ul  habit  of  body,  and  bad 
taken  abimdiince  of  remedies  to  no  purpose.  At  length, 
Mya  the  fiible,  a  physician  cured  him  by  the  following  method. 
He  took  an  hollow  ball  of  wood,  and  filled  it  with  several 
drugs  ;  after  which  he  closed  it  up  so  artificially  that  nothing 
appeared.  He  likewise  took  a  mall,  and  after  having  hot 
lowed  the  handle,  and  that  part  which  strikes  the  ball,  I19 


enclosed  in  them  Bereral  drugs  after  the  same  manner  as  ii 
the  ball  itself.  He  then  ordered  the  sultan,  who  was  hi 
patient,  to  excrciee  himself  early  in  tbe  morning  with  thest 
righlfy  prepared  instruments,  till  auch  time  as  he  shoulf 
Bweat  i  when,  as  the  atory  goes,  the  virtue  of  the  medica 
menta  perspiring  through  the  wood,  had  so  good  an  influenct 
on  the  sultan's  constitution,  that  they  cured  him  of  an  indiS' 
poainon  which  all  the  compositions  he  had  taken  in'wardlj 
had  not  been  able  to  remove.  This  eastern  aUegoiy  is  finelj 
contrived  to  show  ua  how  beneficial  bodily  tabour  is  to  health, 
and  that  exercise  is  the  most  effectrual  physic.  I  have  de- 
scribed, in  my  hundred  and  fifteenth  paper,  from  the  general 
structure  and  mechanism  of  an  human  body,  how  absolutely 
necessary  eiercise  is  for  its  preservation  :  I  shall  in  this  place 
recommend  another  great  preservatiTe  of  health,  which  in 
many  cases  produces  the  same  efiects  as  exercise,  and  may,  in 
some  meaauje,  supply  its  place,  where  qjportunities  of  exer- 
cise are  wanting.  The  preservative  1  am  speaking  of  is 
temperance,  which  baa  those  paj^ncular  advantages  above  all 
other  means  of  healtb,  that  it  may  be  practised  by  all  i-anks 
and  conditions,  at  any  aeaaon,  or  in  any  place.  It  is  a  kind 
of  regimen  into  which  every  man  may  put  himself,  without 
interruption  to  busineas,  expense  of  money,  or  loss  of  time. 
If  exercise  throws  off  all  superfluities,  tomperaice  prevents 
them ;  if  exercise  clears  the  vessels,  temperance  neither  sa- 
tiates nor  overstrains  them ;  if  exercise  raises  proper  fer- 
ments in  the  humours,  and  promotes  the  circulation  of  the 
blood,  temperance  gives  nature  her  full  play,  and  enables  her 
to  exert  herself  in  all  her  force  and  vigour ;  if  exercise  dissi- 
pates a  growing  distemper,  temperance  atarves  it. 

Physic,  for  the  most  part,  is  nothing  else  but  the  substitute 
of  exercise  or  temperance.  Mediciuea  are,  indeed,  absolutely 
necessary  in  acute  distempers,  tbat  cannot  wait  the  alow 
operations  of  these  two  great  instruments  of  health ;  but  did 
men  live  in  an  habitual  course  of  exercise  and  temperance, 
there  would  be  but  little  oceaaion  for  them.  Accordingly, 
we  find  that  those  parts  of  the  world  are  the  most  healthy 
where  they  subaist  by  the  chaae;  and  that  men  lived  longest 
when  tbeir  livea  were  employed  in  hunting,  and  when  they 
had  little  food  beaides  what  they  caught.  Bliatering,  cup- 
ping, bleeding,  are  aeldom  of  use  but  to  the  idle  and  intern 
perate  ;  as  all  those  inward  applications  which  are  ao  mucL 

^^^■k.  THB  HTXOTAXOB.  08 

^^^^■Dtioe  among  ne,  are  for  the  most  part  notUng  elec  but 
P^^Kents  to  make  luxiuy  coDEiBtent  with  health.  The 
I  ■^otkecary  is  peq>etaa!ly  employed  in  countermining  .the 
cook  and  the  vrntuer.  It  is  said  of  Diogenea,  that  meeting 
a  joung  man  who  was  going  to  a  feast,  he  took  him  up  in 
the  street,  and  carried  him  home  to  hia  friends,  as  one  who 
Tsa  nimiing  into  imminent  danger,  had  not  he  prevented 
iim.     "Wliat  would  that  philoBonher  have  said,  had  he  been 

E resent  at  the  gluttony  of  a  modem  meal  ?     Would  not  he 
BTfl  thought  the  master  of  a  family  mad,  and  have  begged 
liM  oervants  to  tie  down  his  hands,  had  he  seen  him  devour 
fowl,  fieh,  and  flesh ;  swallow  oil  and  vinegar,  wines    and 
nioes ;  throw  down  salads  of  twenty  different  herbs,  sauces 
H^pi  hundred  ingredients,  confections  and  fniits  of  numher- 
^^^knveets  and  flavours  F     What  unnatural  motions  and 
^^Hpei^fermentE  moat  such  a  medley  of  intemperance  produce 
^^HbB  body  !     For  my  part,  when  I  behold  a  faehionable 
^taole  Bet  out  in  all  its  magnificence,  I  fancy  that  I  see  gouta 
and  dropsies,  fevers  and  lethargies,  with  other  innumerable 
distenipera,  lying  in  ambuscade  among  the  dishes. 

Nature  delights  in  the  moat  plain  and  simple  diet.   Every 
snimal  but  man  keeps  to  one  dish.     Herbs  are  the  food  of 
this  species,  flsh  of  that,  and  flesh  of  a  third.   !Man  falls  upon  , 
ererytbing  that  cornea  in  his  way  ;  not  the  smallest  fruit  op 
exereBcence  of  the  earth,  scarce  a  berry  or  a  mushroom,  can  j 
escape  him. 
It  is  impossible  to  lay  down  any  determinate  rule  for  tero- 
I    pBTHnce,  because  what  is  luxury  in  one  may  be  temperance 
'    m  another ;  but  there  are  few  that  have  lived  any  time  in  the 
world,  who  are  not  judges  of  their  own  constitutions,  so  far 
M  to  know  what  kinds  and  what  proportions  of  food  do  beat  I 
■    igree  witli  them.     Were  I  to  consider  my  readers  as  my  ' 
I     patients,  and  to  prescribe  such  a  kind  of  temjwrance  as  is 
I    accommodated  to  all  persona,  and  such  as  is  particularly  suit- 
I    able  »o  our  climate  and  way  of  living,  I  would  cony  the  fol- 
'     lowing  rules  of  a  very  eminent  physician.     "Make  your 
I    vbole  repast  out  of  one  dish.     If  you  indulge  in  a  seciind, 
BTOiti  drinking  anything  strong  til!  you  have  finished  your 
'     meal ;  at  the  same  time  abstain  from  all  sauces,  of  at  least 
inch  as  are  not  the  most  plain  and  simple."     A  man  could 
not  well  he  guilty  of  gluttony,  if  he  stuck  to  these  few  ob«  J 
tJouB  and  easy  rules.     In  the  firat  case  there  would  be  n^J 


APSiaoFb  WOKi 

variety  of  tastes  to  solicit  hia  palate,  and  occasion 
nor  in  the  second,  any  artificial  provocativea  to  relieve  satiety™ 
and  create  a  false  appetite.  Were  I  to  prescribe  a  rule  for 
drinking,  it  should  be  formed  upon  a,  saying  quoted  by  Sir 
William  Temple ;  "  The  first  glass  for  myself,  the  second  for 
my  friends,  the  third  for  good  humour,  and  the  fourth  for 
mine  enemies."  But  becBuse  it  is  impossible  for  one  who 
lives  in  the  world  to  diet  timeelf  always  in  so  phOoaophical 
a  manner,  I  think  every  man  should  have  his  aaja  of  absti- 
nence, according  as  his  constitution  will  permit.  These  are 
great  reliefs  to  nature,  as  they  qualify  her  for  struggling 
with  hunger  and  thirst,  whenever  any  disteoiper,  or  duty  of 
life,  may  put  her  upon  such  difftculties :  and  at  the  same 
time  give  her  an  opportunity  of  extricating  herself  fi^m  her 
oppressions,  and  recovering  the  several  tones  mid  springs  of 
her  distended  vessels.  Besides  that  abstinence,  well  timed, 
often  killa  a  sickness  ia  embryo,  and  destroys  the  first 
seeds  of  an  indisposition.  It  is  observed  by  two  or  three 
ancient  authors,  that  Socrates,  notwithstanding  he  lived  in 
Athens  during  the  great  plague,  which  has  made  so  much 
noise  through  all  ages,  and  has  been  celebrated  at  different 
times  by  such  eminent  hands ;  I  say,  notwithsttmding  that 
he  lived  in  the  time  of  this  devouring  pestilencB,  he  never 
caught  the  least  infection,  which  those  writers  unanimously 
ascribe  to  that  uninterrupted  temperance  which  he  always 

And  here  I  cannot  but  mention  an  observation  which  I 
have  often  made,  upon  reading  the  lives  of  the  philosophers, 
and  comparing  them  witli  any  series  of  kings  or  great  men 
of  the  same  number.  If  we  consider  these  ancient  sages,  a 
great  pari;  of  whose  philosophy  consisted  in  a  temperate  and 
abstemious  course  of  life,  one  would  think  the  life  of  a  phi- 
losopher and  the  life  of  a  man  were  of  two  different  dates. 
Por  we  find  that  the  generality  of  these  wise  men  were 
nearer  an  himdred  than  sixty  years  of  age  at  the  time  p{ 
their  respective  deaths.  But  the  most  remarkable  instance 
of  the  efficacy  of  temperance  towards  the  procuring  of  long 
life,  is  what  we  meet  with  in  a  little  book  published  hy  Lewis 
Comaro,  the  Venetian ;  which  I  the  rather  mention,  because 
it  is  of  undoubted  credit,  as  the  late  Yenetian  ambassador, 
who  was  of  the  same  family,  attested  more  than  once  in  con- 
versation, when  he  resided  in  England.     Comaro,  who  wu 




tho  author  of  the  little  treatise  I  am  mentioning,  was  of  an 
infirm  «oiiBtitiitioik,  till  about  forty,  when  by  obstinatoly  pi!r- 
Rstiiig  in  an  exact  course  of  temperance,  he  recovered  a  per- 
fect stete  of  health ;  inBomuch  that  at  fourscore  he  pubUahed 
bis  book,  which  has  been  tranalated  into  English  under  the 
title  of  "  Sure  and  certain  Methods  of  attaining  a  long  and 
healthy  Life."  He  lived  to  give  a  third  or  fourth  edition  of 
it ;  and  after  having  passed  hia  hundredth  year,  died  without 
pain  or  agony,  and  like  one  who  falla  aaleep.  The  treatise  I 
mention  has  been  taken  notice  of  by  severaJ  eminent  authors, 
and  is  written  with  such  a  spirit  of  cheerfiilnees,  religion, 
and  good  sense,  as  are  the  natural  concomitants  of  temper- 
ance  and  sobriety.  The  miiture  of  the  old  man  in  it  is 
rather  a  recommendation  than  a  discredit  to  it. 

Having  designed  this  paper  aa  the  sequel  to  that  upon 
exercise,  I  have  not  here  considered  temperance  as  it  is  a 
moral  virtue,  which  I  shall  make  the  subject  of  a  future  spe- 
L,  but  only  aa  it  la  the  means  of  health. 

No.  198.    WEDKESDAY,  OCTOBEE  17. 

Cerrffi  luporum  prreda.  rnpncium 
ScctHinur  ultro,  quoa  opimus 
Fallera  et  effugere  eal  triumphus.  Hon. 
Thebs  is  a  species  of  women,  whom  I  shall  distinguish  by 
the  name  of  Salamanders.  Now  a  salamander  is  a  tind  of 
heroine  in  chastity,  that  treads  upon  Are,  and  lives  in  the 
Stidst  of  itamea,  without  being  hurt.  A  salamander  knowa 
BO  distinction  of  sex  in  those  she  converses  with,  grows 
fiuniliar  with  a  stranger  at  first  sight,  and  ia  not  so  narrow- 
spirited  as  to  observe  whether  the  person  she  talks  to  be  in 
breeches  or  in  pettieoata.  She  adnuta  a  male  visitant  to  her 
bed-side,  plays  with  him  a  whole  afternoon  at  picquette, 
Tslks  with  him  two  or  three  hours  by  moon-light ;  and  ia 
extremely  scandaliied  at  the  unreasonableness  of  an  husband, 
or  the  severity  of  a  parent,  that  would  debar  the  sex  from 
euch  innocent  liberties.  Your  salamander  is  therefore  a  per- 
petual declnimer  against  jealousy,  an  admirer  of  the  French 
good-breeding,  and  a  great  stickler  for  freedom  in  convers- 
ation. In  short,  the  salamander  lives  in  an  invincible  state 
ef  simplicity  and  innocence :  her  constitution  is  preserved  in 
a  kind  of  natural  frost ;  she  wonders  what  people  mean  ' 


temptations,  and  defies  mantind  to  do  their  ■worst.  Hei 
chastity  is  engaged  in  a  constant  ordeal,  or  fiery  trial ;  (\iki 
good  queen  Emma,)  the  pretty  innocent  walks  blindfoli 
among  burning  plough- shares,  without  being  ecorched  o: 
singed  by  them. 

It  ia  not  therefore  for  the  use  of  the  salamander,  whethe; 
in  a  married  or  single  state  of  lil'e,  that  I  design  the  followiuf 
paper ;  but  for  such  females  only  as  are  made  of  flesh  am 
blood,  and  find  themselves  subject  to  human  frailties. 

As  for  this  part  of  the  fair  ees,  who  are  not  of  the  sahi 
maiider  Irind,  I  would  most  earnestly  advise  them  to  observi 
a  quite  different  conduct  in.  their  behaviour ;  and  to  avoid  ai 
much  as  possible  what  religion  calls  iemptaft'oBs,  andtheworii 
opportunities.  Did  they  but  know  how  many  thousands  o 
their  sex  have  been  graduaOy  betrayed  from  innocent  free 
£oms  to  ruin  and  infamy;  and  how  many  milliona  of  oun 
have  begun  with  flatteries,  protestations,  and  endearments 
but  ended  with  reproaches,  perjury,  and  perfidiouflnesa ;  thej 
■would  shun  lilte  death  the  ■very  first  approaches  of  one  thai 
might  lead  them  into  inextricable  labyrinths  of  guilt  and 
misery.  I  must  so  far  give  up  the  cause  of  tiie  male  world, 
as  to  exhort  the  female  sei  in  the  language  of  Chamont  in 
the  Orphan, 

Trust  not  a  man  ;  we  are  by  nature  false, 

DissemblinB,  sntlle,  cruel,  and  nnconstant ; 

■When  a  man  talks  of  Iota,  wiUi  caution  trust  him  ; 

But  if  he  sweai^s,  he'll  certainly  deceive  thee. 
I  might  very  much  enlarge  upon  this  subject,  but  shall  con- 
clude it  with  a  story  which  I  lately  heard  from  one  of  oiu 
Spanish  officers,  and  which  may  show  the  danger  a  woman 
incurs  by  too  great  famUiarities  with  a  male  companion. 

An  inhabitant  of  the  kingdom  of  Castile,  being  a  man  oi 
more  than  ordinary  prudence,  and  of  a  grave,  composed  be. 
haviour,  determined  about  the  fiftieth  year  of  his  a^e  to  entei 
upon  wedlock.  In  order  to  make  himself  easy  in  it,  he  eaai 
hia  eve  upon  a  young  woman  who  had  nothing  to  recommend 
her  6ut  her  beauty  and  her  education,  her  parents  having 
been  reduced  to  great  poverty  by  the  wars  which  for  some 
ars  have  laid  that  whole  country  vtaste.  The  Caatiliau 
_ving  made  his  addreasea  to  her  and  married  her,  they  lived 
together  in  perfect  happiness  for  some  time ;  when  at  length 
Ihe  buabana'a  affairs  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  take  b 


^^^Ke  to  the  kingdom  of  Nnples,  where  a  great  part  jf  hi^H 
^^^R  la^.     The  wife  loved  him  too  tenderly  to  he  left  hohin  J^ 
P^K     They  had  not  heen  ou  shiphoard  above  a  day,  when 
^aey  ttulucKily  fell  into  the  hands  of  an  Algerine  pirate,  who 
earned  the  whole  company  on  shore,  and  made  them  elaveB. 
The  Caetilian  and  his  wife  had  the  comfort  to  he  uuder  the 
■sme  master ;  who  seeing  how  dearly  they  loved  one  another, 
■ad  gasped  after  their  liberty,  demanded  a,  most  esorbitant 
price  for  their  ransom.     The    Castilian,  though    he   would 
ntfaer  have  died  in  alavery  himaeli'  than  have  paid  auch  a  aum 
&a  he  found  would  go  near  to  ruin  him,  was  so  moved  with     I 
compaaaion  towards  hia  wife,  that  he  aent  repeated  orders  t'o- 1 
hia  friend  in  Spain  (who  happened  to  be  his  next  relation)  to  I 
sell  hia  estate,  and  transmit  the  money  to  him.     Hia  friend,    \ 
hoping  that  the  terms  of  hia  ransom  might  be  made  more 
reasonable,  and  unwilling  to  sell  an  estate  which  he  himself 
had  some  prospect  of  inheriting,  formed  so  many  delays,  that 
three  whole  years  passed  away  vrithoat  anything  being  done     . 
fop  the  setting  of  them  at  liberty,  J 

There  happened  to  live  a  French  renegado  in  the  samfl  I 
place  where  tne  Castilian  and  hia  wife  were  kept  prisouere.  ^ 
As  thia  fellow  had  in  him  all  the  vivacity  of  liis  nation,  he  ' 
often  entertained  the  captives  with  accounts  of  his  own  ad- 
ventures [  to  which  he  sometimes  added  a  song  or  a  dance, 
or  Bome  other  piece  of  mirth,  to  divert  them  during  their 
confinement.  His  aequaintance  with  the  manners  of  the  Al- 
gerines  enabled  him  ukewiae  to  do  thenj  several  good  offices. 
The  Castilian,  as  he  waa  one  day  in  conversation  with  thia 
renegado,  discovered  to  him  the  negligence  and  treachery  of 
hia  correspondent  in  Castile,  and  at  the  same  time  asked  his 
advice  how  he  should  behave  himself  in  that  exigency :  he 
further  told  the  renegado,  that  he  found  it  would  be  impoa- 
Bible  for  him  to  raise  the  money,  unless  he  himself  might  go 
over  to  dispose  of  hia  estate.  The  renegado,  after  having  re- 
presented to  him  that  his  Algerine  master  would  never  con- 
sent to  hia  release  upon  such  a  pretence,  at  length  contrived 
a  method  for  the  Castilian  to  make  hia  escape  in  the  habit  of 
a  seaman.  The  Castilian  auceeeded  in  his  attempt;  and 
having  sold  his  estate,  being  afraid  lest  the  money  should 
miscarry  by  the  way,  and  determining  to  perish  with  it 
rather  tban  lose  what  was  much  dearer  to  him  than  his  life, 
he  returned  himself  in  a  little  vessel  that  waa  going  to  Al*  J 

70  ASDiaoir'B  wobks. 

giera.  It  is  impoBsible  to  describe  the  joy  he  felt  upon  tt 
(MMjaaion,  -when  ne  oonBidered  that  he  should  soon  Bee  th 
wiie  whom  he  so  much  loved,  and  endear  himself  more  '^ 
her  by  this  uncommon  piece  of  generoBity. 

The  renegado,  during  the  husband's  absence,  bo  insinuate 
hiniHpjf  into  the  graces  of  his  young  wife,  and  bo  turned  hit 
I  -lead  with  stories  of  gallantry,  that  she  quickl7  thouglit  iSi 
the  finest  ^ntleman  she  had  ever  convereed  with.  ToS 
brief,  her  mind  wa^  quite  alienated  from  the  honest  Caatilua 
whom  she  was  taught  to  look  upon  as  a  formal  old  felliM 
unwori^hy  the  poBsession  of  so  charming  a  creature.  SA 
had  been  iuBtructed  by  the  renegado  how  to  manage  henfl 
upon  hia  arrival ;  so  that  she  received  him  with  au  appew 
ance  of  the  utmost  love  and  gratitude,  and  at  length  pe^ 
suaded  him  to  trust  their  common  friend  the  renegado  witli 
the  money  he  had  brought  over  for  their  ransom ;  tm  not 
queetiouing  but  he  would  beat  down  the  terms  of  it,  and 
negotiate  the  affair  more  to  their  advantage  than  they  them* 
selves  could  do.  The  good  man  admired  her  prudence  imd 
followed  her  advice.  I  wish  I  could  conceal  the  sequel  of 
this  story,  but  since  I  cannot,  I  Bhall  despatch  it  in  as  few 
words  as  possible.  The  Castilian  having  slept  longer  than 
ordinary  the  neit  morning,  upon  his  awtAing  found  hia  wife 
had  left  him :  he  immediately  rose  and  inquired  after  her, 
but  was  told  that  she  was  seen  with  the  renegado  about 
break  of  day.  In  a  word,  her  lover  having  got  all  things 
ready  for  tbeir  departure,  they  soon  made  their  escape  out 
of  the  territories  of  Algiers,  carried  away  the  money,  and 
left  the  Castihan  in  captivity :  who  partly  through  the  cruel 
treatment  of  the  incensed  Ai^erine  hia  master,  and  partly 
through  the  unkind  usage  of  hia  unfaithful  wile,  died  some 
few  months  after. 

No.  201.     SATUEDAY,  OCTOBER  20. 

It  is  of  the  last  importance  to  season  the  passions  of  achDd 
with  devotion,  which  seldom  dies  in  a  mind  that  has  received 
nn  early  tincture  of  it.  Though  it  may  seem  eitioguisbed 
lor  a  while  by  the  cares  of  the  world,  the  heats  of  youth,  or 

"ra^  "IgPt  OTATOB. 

the  allureiaents  of  TJce,  it  generally  breaks  out  and  (liBcovera 
itself  (^aia  as  aoon  aa  diBcretion,  consideration,  age,  or  mis- 
fortimes,  bave  brought  the  man  to  hiniBelf.  The  &e  may  be 
covered  and  overlaid,  but  cannot  be  entirely  quenched  and 

A  state  of  temperance,  sobriety,  and  justice,  without  devo- 
tion, is  a  cold,  bfeleaa,  insipid  condition  of  virtue ;  and  is 
rather  to  be  styled  philosophy  than  religion.  Devotion  openi 
the  mind  to  great  conceptions,  and  fillf  it  with  more  sublime 
ideas  than  aay  that  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  most  exalted 
Bcience ;  and  at  the  same  time  warms  and  agitates  the  soul. 
more  thou  sensual  pleasure. 

It  has  been  observed  by  some  writers,  that  man  is  mor*' 
distinguisbed  from  the  niiiinn.1  world  by  devotion  than  by 
son,  as  several  brute  creatures  discover  in  their  actions 
something  like  a  feint  glimmering  of  reason,  though  they 
betray  in  no  single  circumstance  of  their  behaviour  anything 
that  bears  the  least  affinity  to  devotion.  It  is  certam,  the 
propensity  of  the  mind  to  religious  worship,  the  natural  tend- 
ency of  the  soul  to  fly  to  some  superior  Being  for  succour 
in  iwngers  and  distresBes,  the  gratitude  to  an  invisible  Super- 
intendent which  rises  in  us  upon  receiving  any  extraordinary 
and  unexpected  good  fortune,  the  acts  of  love  and  admira» 
tion  with  which  the  thoughts  of  men  are  so  wonderfully 
transported  in  meditating  upon  the  Divine  perfections,  and 
the  universal  concurrence  oi  all  the  nations  under  heaven  in 
the  great  article  of  adoration,  plainly  show  that  devotion,  or 
religious  worship,  must  be  the  eSect  of  a  tradition  from  some 
first  founder  of  mankind,  or  that  it  is  conformable  to  the 
natural  light  of  reason,  or  that  it  proceeds  from  an  instinct 
implanted  in  the  soul  itself.  l"or  my  part,  I  look  upon  all 
these  to  be  the  concurrent  causes ;  but  whichever  ot  them 
shall  be  assigned  aa  the  principle  of  Divine  worship,  it  mani- 
festly points  to  a  Supreme  Being  as  the  first  author  of  it. 

I  may  take  some  other  opportunity  of  considering  those 
particular  forma  and  methods  of  devotion  which  are  taught 
118  by  Christianity ;  but  shall  here  observe  into  what  errors 
even  this  Divine  principle  may  lead  us,  when  it  is  not  moder- 
ated by  that  right  reason  which  was  given  us  as  the  guide  of 
all  our  actions. 

The  two  great  errors  into  which  a  mistaken  devotion  may 
betray  us,  are  enthusiasm  and  superstition. 



There  ia  not  a  more  melanclioiy  object  than  a  man  who  h 
bia  head  turned  with  enthuaiasm.  A  person  that  is  craae 
tliough  with  pride  or  malice,  is  a  sight  very  mortifying  tiy  " 
human  nature  ;  but  when  the  diatemper  arises  from  any  iu- 
diacreet  fervoura  of  devotion,  or  too  intense  an  application 
of  the  mind  to  its  miataken  duties,  it  deserves  our  compaa- 
aion  in  a  more  particular  manner.  We  may,  however,  learn 
thia  leaaon  from  it,  that  since  devotion  itself  (which  one 
.  would  be  apt  to  think  could  not  be  too  warm)  may  disorder 
the  mind,  unless  its  heata  are  tempered  with  caution  and 
prudence,  we  should  be  pa,rticularly  careful  to  keep  our  reu- 
aon  as  cool  as  possible,  and  to  ^ard  ourselves  in  lul  parts  of 
life  against  the  influence  of  passion,  imagination,  and  eon- 

Devotion,  when  it  doea  not  lie  under  the  cheek  of  reason, 
is  very  apt  to  degenerate  into  enthusiasm.  When  the  mind 
finds  herself  very  much  inflamed  with  her  devotiona,  ahe  ia 
too  much  inclined  to  think  they  are  not  of  her  own  kindling, 
but  blown  up  by  something  Divine  within  her.  If  ahe  in- 
dulges thia  tliought  too  far,  and  humours  the  growing  pas- 
sion, she  at  last  flings  herself  into  imaginary  raptures  and 
ecstasies  ;  and  when  once  she  fancies  herself  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  Divine  impulse,  it  ia  no  wonder  if  she  slights 
human  ordinances,  and  refiiaes  to  comply  with  any  eatabliah- 
ed  form  of  religion,  as  thinking  heraelf  directed  by  a  much 
superior  guide. 

Aa  enthusiasm  ia  a  kind  of  excess  in  devotion,  superstition 
is  the  excess,  not  only  of  devotion,  but  of  religion  in  gener- 
al ;  according  to  an  old  heathen  saying,  quoted  by  Aulus 
Gellitis,  Religentem  esse  cportet,  Reiigiosum  nefas ;  A  man 
should  be  rehgious,  and  not  anperatitioua  :  for,  aa  that  author 
tells  us,  Nigidius  observed  upon  this  paasage,  that  the  Latin 
worda  which  terminate  ia  osus  generally  imply  vicious  cha- 
racters, and  the  having  of  any  quality  to  an  excesa. 

An  enthusiast  in  religion  ia  like  an  obstinate  clown,  a  au- 
peratitioua  man  like  an  insipid  courtier.  Enthusiasm  has 
something  in  it  of  madness ;  superstition,  of  folly.  Moat  of 
the  sects  that  fall  short  of  the  Church  of  England,  have  in 
them  strong  tinctures  of  enthusiasm,  as  the  Bomau  Catholic 
religion  is  one  huge  overgrown  body  of  childish  and  idle  au- 

The  Eoman  Catholic  Church  seei 

a   8PSCTAT0B. 

11  thia  partieukr.  If  an  absurd  dress  or  behaviour  te 
troduced  iuto  tke  world,  it  will  booh  be  found  out  tind  dia- 
II  the  contrary,  a  habit  or  ceremony,  though  never 
9  ridicnious,  which  has  taken  sanetuary  in  the  Chureb,  sticka 
^  it  for  ever.  A  Gothic  bishop,  perhaps,  thought  it  proper  to 
eat  such  a  form  in  auuh  particular  shoes  or  slippers ;  an- 
er  fancied  it  would  be  very  decent  if  such  a  part  of  public 
devotions  were  performed  with  a  mitre  on  his  head,  and  a 
crosier  in  his  band :  to  thia  a  brother  Vandal,  as  wise  as  the 
others,  adds  on  antic  dress,  which  he  conceived  would  allude 
very  aptly  to  such  and  such  mysteries,  till  by  degrees  the 
whole  office  has  degenerated  into  an  empty  show. 
Their  sucoeasors  see  the  vanily  and  inconvenience  of  these 
reiaonies ;  but  inatead  of  retormiog,  perhaps  add  others 
'bich  tbey  think  more  significant,  and  which  take  possesaion 
1  the  same  manner,  and  are  never  to  be  driven  out  after 
y  have  been  once  admitted.  1  have  seen  the  pope  ofB- 
ate  at  St.  Peter's,  where,  for  two  hours  together,  ne  was 
iflied  in  putting  on  or  off  his  different  accoutrements, 
icording  to  the  different  parts  he  was  to  act  in  them. 
Nothing  is  ao  glorious  in  the  eyes  of  mankind,  and  oma- 
entol  to  human  nature,  setting  aside  the  infinite  odvan- 
igea  which  arise  irom  it,  as  a  strong,  steady,  masculine  piety ; 
at  enthusiasm  and  superstition  are  the  weaknesses  of  bu- 
an  reason,  that  expose  us  to  the  scorn  and  derision  of  in- 
iels,  and  sink  us  even  below  the  beasts  that  perish. 
Idolatry  may  be  looked  upon  as  another  error  arising  from 
tiataken  devotion ;  hut  because  refiectiona  on  that  subject 
uuld  be  of  no  use  to  an  English  reader,  I  shall  not  enlarge 

No.  203.    TUESDAY,   OCTOBER  23. 

— Fhofbe  pater,  si  das  hujus  miM  nominis  usum, 
Vec  laiah  Clymene  culpun  sub  imagine  eclat; 
Pignnta  dii,genitor--  OviP.  Met. 

ThsbS  is  a  loose  tribe  of  men  whom  I  have  not  yet  taken 
stice  of,  that  ramble  into  all  the  oomera  of  this  great  citj-, 
1  order  to  seduce  such  unfortunate  females  as  fall  into  their 
These  abandoned  profligates  raise  up  issue  in  every 
r  of  the  tows,  and  very  often,  for  a  valuabie  consider- 


fttion,  father  it  upon  the  churchwarden.  By  this  meana 
there  are  several  married  men  who  have  a  little  family  in  most 
of  the  pariahea  of  London  and  Westminster,  and  Beverol  ba- 
chelora  who  are  undone  by  a.  charge  of  children. 

When  a  man  once  gives  himself  this  liberty  of  preying  at 
large,  and  living  upon  the  common,  he  finds  so  much  game  in 
a.  populous  city,  that  it  is  Burpriaing  to  consider  the  numbera 
which  he  sometimes  propaf;ates.  We  see  man^  a  yoiing  fel- 
low who  ia  scarce  of  age.  that  could  lay  hia  claim  to  the  Jtis 
Irium  liberorum,  or  the  privileges  which  were  granted  by  the 
Bornan  lawa  to  all  such  aa  were  fathers  of  three  children : 
nay,  I  have  heard  a  rake,  who  was  not  quite  five-and-twenty, 
declare  himself  the  father  of  a  seventh  son,  and  very  pru- 
dently determine  to  breed  him  up  a  physician.  In  short, 
the  town  is  full  of  those  voung  patriarchs ;  not  to  mention, 
several  battered  beans,  who,  lite  heedless  spendthrifts,  that 
squander  away  their  estates  before  they  are  masters  of 
tliem,  have  raised  up  their  whole  stock  of  children  before 

I  must  not  here  omit  th«  particular  whim  of  an  imprudent 
libertine  that  had  a  little  smattering  of  ii^'raldry;  and  ob- 
serving how  the  genealogies  of  great  families  were  o" 
drawn  uji  in  the  shape  of  trees,  had  taken  a  fancy  to  diay 
of  hia  own  Ulegitimate  issue  in  a  figure  of  the  same  kin( 
— Nee  loi^um  tempus.  et  ingeni, 
Exiit  ad  roiluin  rumis  TeUcibUB  aiboB, 
Micaturque  dotu  frondee,  et  non  bus  poma.     VtRO. 

The  trunk  of  the  tree  was  marked  with  his  own  name. 
Will.  Maple.  Out  of  the  side  of  it  grew  a  large  barren  branch, 
inscribed  Mary  Maple,  the  name  of  his  unhappy  wife.  The 
head  was  adorned  with  five  huge  bougha.  On  the  bottom  of 
the  first  was  written  in  capital  characters,  Kate  Cole,  who 
branched  out  into  three  sprigs,  viz.  William,  Richard,  and 
Eebecca.  Sal.  Twiford  gave  birth  to  another  bough,  that  shot 
up  into  Sarah,  Tom,  Will,  and  Frank.  The  third  arm  of  the 
tree  had  only  a  single  infant  in  it,  with  a  space  left  for  a 
second,  the  parent  from  wbom  it  sprung  being  near  her  time 
when  the  author  took  this  ingenious  device  into  his  head. 
The  two  other  great  houghs  were  very  plentifully  loaden  with 
fruit  of  the  same  kind  ;  besides  which,  there  were  many  ni^ 
namental  branches  that  did  not  bear.  In  short,  a  more  ft 
ishing  tree  never  came  out  of  the  Herald's  Office. 

Wlat  makes  this  generntion  of  Termin  bo  very  pTOlific,  is 
the  indefatigable  diligence  with  w-Lich  they  apply  themaelvea 
to  their  business.  A  man  does  not  undergo  more  watchinga 
and  fatigues  in  a  campaigo,  than  in  the  course  of  a  vicious 
amour.  As  it  is  aaia  of  some  men,  that  they  malie  their 
buBJneaa  their  pleasure,  these  sons  of  darkness  may  be  said 
to  make  their  pleasure  their  business.  They  might  conquef 
their  corrupt  inclinations  -with  half  the  pains  they  are  a.t- 
in  gratifying  them. 

Nor  is  the  invention  of  these  men  less  to  be  admired 
than  their  industry  and  vigilance.  There  is  a  fragmeut  of 
ApoliodomB,  the  oomio  poet,  (who  was  contemporary  with 
Meuander,)  which  is  full  of  humour,  as  follows  :  "  Thou 
may' at  shut  up  thy  doors,  (says  he,)  with  bars  and  bolts ;  it 
will  be  impossible  for  the  blacksmith  to  make  them  bo  fast, 
but  a  cat  and  a  whoremaater  wiD  find  a  way  through  them." 
In  a  word,  there  is  no  head  so  full  of  stratagem  as  that  of  a 
libidinous  man. 

Were  I  to  propose  a  punishment  for  this  infamous  race  ot. 
propagators,  it  should  be  to  send  them,  after  the  second  oe' 
thiri  offence,  into  our  American  colonies,  in  order  to  people 
those  parts  of  her  Majesty's  dominions  where  there  is  a  want 
of  inhabitants,  and,  m  the  phrase  of  Diogenes,  to  "plant 
men."  Some  oouutjies  punish  this  crime  with  death  ;  but  I 
think  such  a  banishment  would  be  sufRcient,  and  might 
turn  this  generative  faculty  to  the  advantage  of  the  public. 

In  the  mean  time,  tiU  these  gentlemen  may  be  thus  dis- 
posed of,  I  would  earnestly  exhort  them  to  take  care  of  those 
unfortunate  creatures  whom  they  have  brought  into  the 
world  by  these  indirect  methods,  and  to  give  theif  spurious 
children  such  an  education  as  may  render  them  more  virtu- 
ous than  their  parents.  This  is  the  best  atonement  they  can 
make  I'or  their  own  crimes,  and  indeed  the  only  method  that 
is  left  them  to  repair  their  past  miBcarriages, 

I  would  likewise  desire  them  to  consider,  whether  they 
ore  not  hound  in  common  humanity,  as  well  as  by  all  the 
obligations  of  rehgion  and  nature,  to  make  some  provision 
for  those  whom  they  have  not  only  given  life  to,  but  entailed 
upon  them,  though  very  unreasonably,  a  degree  of  shame 
and  disgrace.  And  here  I  cannot  but  take  notice  of  tl 
depraved  notions  which  prevail  among  ua,  and  which  i 
have  taken  rise  &om  our  natural  incliuuiioa  to  favour  ■ 


to  wbich  we  are  bo  very  prone,  namely,  that  baatardy  and 
cuckoldom  alumk!  be  looked  upon  aa  reproacbea,  and  tbat 
the  ebame  which  is  only  due  to  lewdaeaa  and  falsehood, 
Bhould  fail  in  ho  unreasonable  a  manner  upon  the  peraona 
who  are  innocent. 

I  have  been  insensibly  drawn  into  thia  discourse  by  the 
following  letter,  which  is  drawn  up  with  such  a  spirit  of  sin- 
cerity, that  I  question  not  but  the  writer  of  it  baa  repre- 
sented hia  case  in  a  true  genuine  light. 

"  SiE, 

I  am  one  of  thoae  people  who  by  the  general  opinion 
of  the  world  are  counted  toth  infamous  and  unliappy. 

"My  father  le  a  very  eminent  man  in  thia  kingdom,  and 
one  who  bears  considerable  offices  in  it,  I  am  hia  son ;  but 
my  misfortune  is,  that  1  dare  not  call  him  lather,  nor  he 
without  shame  own  roe  aa  hia  issue,  I  being  Ulegitiraate,  and 
therefore  deprived  of  that  endearing  tenderness  and  unparal- 
leled satisfiictlon,  which  a  good  mn.n  finds  in  the  love  and 
conversation  of  a  parent :  neither  have  I  the  opportunities 
to  render  him  the  duties  of  a  son,  he  having  always  carried 
himself  at  so  vast  a  distance,  and  with  such  superiority  to- 
wards me,  that  by  long  use  I  have  contracted  a  timorous 
nesB  when  before  him,  which  hindera  me  from  declaring  my 
own  necessities,  and  giving  him  to  understand  the  inconveni- 
enciea  I  undergo. 

"  It  is  my  misfortune  to  have  been  neither  bred  a  scholar, 
a  soldier,  nor  to  any  kind  of  business,  which  renders  me  en- 
tirely uncapable  of  making  provision  for  myself  without  his 
assistance ;  iind  thia  creates  a  continual  uneasiness  ia  my 
mind,  fearing  I  shall  in  time  want  bread ;  my  father,  if  I  may 
ao  call  him,  giving  me  but  very  faint  assurances  of  doing 
anything  for  me. 

"  I  have  hitherto  lived  somewhat  like  a  gentleman,  and  it 
would  be  very  hard  for  me  to  labour  for  my  living.  I  am  in 
continual  anxiety  for  my  future  fortune,  aad  under  a  great 
unhappiness  in  losing  the  sweet  conversation  and  friendly 
advice  of  my  parenta ;  so  that  I  cannot  look  upon  myseU 
otherwise  than  as  a  monster  strangely  sprung  up  in  nature, 
which  every  one  ia  ashamed  to  own. 

"  I  am  thought  to  be  a  man  of  some  natural  parta,  and 
the  contmuul  reading  which  you  have  offered  the  w:Tid, 


come  an  admirer  thereof,  whicli  haa  drawn  me  to  mate  this 
confeBsion;  at  the  same  time  hoping,  if  anything  therein 
shall  touch  yon  with  a  sense  of  pity,  you.  will  then  allow  me 
the  favour  of  your  opinion  thereupon ;  as  also  what  part  I, 
being  unlawfully  born,  may  claim  of  the  man's  affection  who 
begot  nie,  and  how  far  in  your  opinion  I  am  to  be  thought 
his  son,  or  he  acknowledged  as  my  father.  Your  eentimenta 
and  advice  herein  will  be  a  great  consolation  and  satiaia^ 
tion  to, 

"  Sir,  yonr  admirer  and 

Humble  servMit,  W.  B.' 

No.  205.     THITRSDAT,  OCTOBEE  25. 

Decipimur  specie  recti —  Hob. 

When  I  meet  with  any  viciouH  character  that 
nerally  known,  in  order  to  prevent  its  doing  miBehief,  I  draw 
it  at  length,  and  set  it  up  as  a  scarecrow  ;  by  which  means 
I  do  not  only  make  an  eaample  of  the  person  to  whom  it 
belongs,  but  gire  warning  to  all  her  Majesty's  subjects,  that 
they  may  not  suffer  by  it.  Thus,  to  change  the  alluaioD,  I 
bave  marked  out  several  of  the  shoals  and  quickaands  of  life, 
Mid  am  continually  employed  in  diacoveriog  those  which  are 
rtill  concealed,  in  order  to  keep  the  ignorant  and  unwary 
from  running  upon  them.  It  is  with  this  intention  that  Ij 
publish  the  following  letter,  which  brings  to  light  soioifl 
secrets  of  this  nature.  ^t 

"  Mr.  Spectatoe, 

There  are  none  of  your  speculations  which  I  read  over 
with  greater  delight,  than  those  which  are  designed  for  the 
improvement  of  our  sex.  Ton  have  endeavoured  to  correct 
our  unreasonable  fears  and  superstitions,  in  your  seventh  and 
twelfth  papers ;  our  fancy  for  equipage,  in  your  fifteenth ; 
our  love  of  puppet-shows,  in  your  tlurty-firat ;  our  notjona  of 
beauty,  in  your  thirty-third ;  our  incliiiBtion  for  romances,  in 
jonr  thirty-seventh;  our  passion  for  French  fopperies,  in 
your  forty-fifth;  our  manhood  and  party  zeal,  in  your  fifty- 
Bcventh  ;  our  abuse  of  dancing,  in  your  sixty-siith  and  sizty- 
•eventh  ;  our  levity,  in  your  hundred  and  twenty-eighth ;  our 
love  of  coxcombs,  m  your  hundred  and  fifty-fourth  and  bun- 

dred  and  fifty-aeventh ;  onr  tyranny  over  the  henpeckt,  in 
your  bundrea  and  Beventy-siith.  Tou  have  described  the 
Vict  in  your  forty-firat;  the  Idol,  in  your  ieventy-third  ;  the 
Demurrer,  in  your  eighty-ninth ;  the  Sulamander,  in  your 
hundred  and  ninety-eighth.  Tou  have  likewise  taken  to 
pieces  our  dresB,  and  repreaented  to  ua  the  extravagances  we 
are  often  guilty  of  in  that  particular.  You  have  ftdlen  upon 
our  patches,  in  j-our  fiftieth  and  eighty-first ;  our  commodes, 
in  your  ninety-eighth  ;  our  fans,  in  your  hundred  and  second ; 
our  riding  habits,  in  your  hundred  and  fourth  ;  our  hoop- 
petticoats,  in  your  hundred  and.  twentj'-Beventh  ;  besides  a 
great  many  little  blemishes,  which  yoti  have  touched  upon  in 
your  several  other  papers,  and  in  those  many  letters  that  are 
scattered  up  and  down  your  works.     At  tne  same  time  we 

must  own,  tnat  the  compliments  you  pay  o 
able,  and  that  those  very  faults  which  you  represent  in  ua, 
are  neither  black  in  themselve-s,  nor,  as  you  own,  universal 
among  us.  But,  sir,  it  is  plain  that  these  your  discourses 
are  calculated  for  none  but  the  fashionable  part  of  woman- 
kind, and  for  the  use  of  tliose  who  are  rather  fndiscreet  than 
vicious.  But,  sir,  there  is  a  sort  of  prostitutes  in  the  lower 
part  of  our  sex,  who  are  a  scandal  to  us,  and  very  well  deserve 
to  fall  under  your  censure.     I  know  it  would  debase  your 

Eiper  too  muca  to  enter  iuto  the  behaviour  of  these  female 
bertines ;  but  as  your  remarks  on  some  part  of  it  would  bo 
a  doing  of  justice  to  several  women  of  virtue  and  honour, 
whose  reputations  suffer  by  it,  I  hope  you  will  not  think  it 
improper  to  give  the  public  some  accounts  of  this  nature, 
Tou  must  know,  air,  I  am  provoked  to  write  yoa  this  letter 
by  the  behaviour  of  an  infamous  woman,  who  having  passed 
her  youth  in  a  moat  shameless  state  of  prostitution,  is  now 
one  of  those  who  gain  their  livelihood  oy  seducing  others 
that  are  yonnger  than  themselves,  and  by  establishing  a  eriini- 
ual  commerce  between  the  two  sexea.  Among  several  of 
her  artifices  to  get  money,  she  frequently  persuades  a  vain 
Toung  fellow,  that  such  a  woman  of  quality,  or  auch  a  cele- 
Dratea  toast,  entertains  a  secret  passion  for  him,  and  wants 
nothing  but  an  opportunity  of  rerealing  it :  nay,  she  baa  gone 
so  for  as  to  writ*  letters  in  the  name  of  a  woman  of  figure,  to 
borrow  money  of  one  of  these  foolish  Boderigos,  which  sh« 
has  afterwariu  appropriated  to  her  own  use.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  person  who  nas  lent  the  money  baa  thought  a  lady 

under  obligations  to  liim,  who  scarce  knew  Lis  'naine ;  and 
■wondered  at  her  ingratitude  when  he  has  been  with  her,  that 
she  haa  not  owned  the  favour,  though  at  the  same  time  he 
■was  too  much  a  man  of  honour  to  put  her  in  mind  of  it. 

"  When  this  abandoned  baggage  meets  with  a  man  who 
has  vanity  enough  to  give  credit  to  relations  of  this  nature, 
she  turns  him  to  a  very  good  account,  by  repeating  praises 
that  were  never  uttered,  and  delivering  messages  that  were 
never  sent.  As  the  house  of  this  shameleas  creature  is  fre- 
quented by  several  foreigners,  I  have  heard  of  another  artifice, 
out  of  which  she  often  raises  money.  The  foreigner  sigha 
after  some  British  beauty,  whom  he  only  knows  by  feme ; 
upon  which  she  promises,  if  he  can  be  secret,  to  procure  him 
a  meeting.  The  stranger,  ravished  at  his  good  fortune,  givea 
her  a  present,  and  in  a  little  time  is  introduced  to  some  imn- 
einary  title ;  for  you  must  knowthat  this  cunning  purveyor 
has  her  representatives,  upon  this  occasion,  of  some  of  the 
finest  ladies  in  the  kingdom.  By  this  means,  as  I  am  in< 
formed,  it  is  usual  enough  to  meet  with  a  German  coimt  in 
foreign  countries,  that  shall  make  bis  boast  of  favours  he  has 
received  from  women  of  the  highest  ranks,  and  the  most  un- 
lilemished  characters.  Now,  sir,  what  safety  is  there  for  a 
woman's  reputation,  when  a  lady  may  be  thus  prostituted 
as  it  were  by  prosy,  and  be  reputed  an  unchaste  woman  ?  as 
the  hero  in  the  ninth  book  of  Dryden's  Virgil  is  looked  upon 
as  a  coward,  because  the  phantom  which  appeared  in  hia 
likeness  ran  away  from  Turnus.  Tou  may  depend  upon 
■what  I  relate  to  you  to  be  matter  of  fact,  and  the  practice 
of  more  than  one  of  theae  female  panders,  If  you  print  thiiB 
letter,  I  may  give  you  some  further  accounts  of  this  viciotn 
race  of  women,  ij 

"  Tour  humble  servant,    Bblvi:])era.^| 

n  different  subjects  to  fill  up  ' 

I  shall  add  two  other  letters  o; 
my  paper. 

"Mb,  Spectatoh, 

I  am  a  country  clergyman,  and  hope  yon  will  lend  me 
your  assistance,  in  ridiculing  some  little  indecencies  which 
cannot  so  property  be  exposed  from  the  pulpit. 

"  A  widow  lady,  who  straggled  this  summer  from  London 
into  my  parish  for  the  benefit  of  the  air,  as  she  says,  appean 


every  Sunday  at  church  irith  many  fashionable  extraTi 
gaucies,  to  the  great  aatonishment  of  my  congregation. 

"  But  what  gives  ua  the  moat  offence,  ia  her  theatrical 
manner  of  eingine  the  psalma.  She  introduces  above  fifly 
Itahan  aira  into  the  hundredth  paalm ;  and  whilst  we  begin 
All  people  in  the  old  aolemn  tune  of  our  forefathera,  ahe,  in  a 

Suite  different  key,  runa  diviaiona  on  the  vowela,  and  adorns 
lem  with  the  grncea  of  Nicolini :  if  she  meets  with  eke  or 
aye,  which  are  frequent  in  the  metre  of  Hopkina  and  Stem- 
hold,  we  are  certain  to  hear  her  quavering  them  half  a  mi- 
nute after  ua  to  some  sprightly  airs  of  the  opera. 

"  I  am  very  far  from  being  an  enemy  to  church  music  f* 
but  fear  this  abuse  of  it  may  make  my  pariah  ridiculous,  whtri 
already  look  on  the  ainging  psalms  aa  an  entertainment,  and- 
not  part  of  their  devotion :  oesidea,  I  am  apprehensive  that 
the  infection  may  spread ;  for  Squire  Squeekum,  who  by  his 
voice  seema  (if  I  may  use  the  expression)  to  be  cut  out  for 
an  It^an  ainger,  was  last  Sunday  practiaing  the  same  aire. 
"  I  know  the  lady's  principles,  and  that  she  will  plead  the 
toleration,  which  (as  ate  fanciea)  allows  her  non-conformity 
in  this  particular  ;  but  I  beg  you  to  acquaint  her,  that  sing- 
ing the  paalma  in  a  different  tune  from  the  rest  of  the  coo* 
gregation,  i^  a  aort  of  achisni  not  tolerated  by  that  act. 
"  I  am,  air. 

Tour  very  humble  servant,  E.  E 

"Me.  Spectatok, 

In  your  paper  upon  temperance,  yon  prescribe  to  iu|l 
a  rule  for  lirinking,  out  of  Sir  William  Temple,  in  the  follow* 
ing  words :  '  The  first  glass  for  myself,  the  second  for  my 
friends,  the  third  for  good  Tiumour,  and  the  fourth  for  mine 
enemies.'  Now,  sir,  you  must  know  that  I  have  read  this 
your  Spectator  in  a  club  whereof  I  am  a  member ;  when 
our  president  told  us  there  was  certainly  an  error  in  the 
print,  and  that  the  word  glasi  ahonld  be  bottle;  and  therefore 
has  ordered  me  to  inform  you  of  this  mistake,  and  to  desire 
you  to  publish  the  followmg  errata :  In  the  paper  of  Satni" 
day,  October  13,  col.  3,  line  11,  for  glass,  read  bottle. 

"  TOUTB,      SOBIH  GoOB-EELLOir. 


THE  31'£CTAT0S.- 

No.  207.     SATIJEDAT,  OCTOBER  27. 

Omnibus  in  t^rrU,  qus  sunt  ^  Gadlbus  usque 
Auroram  et  Gangeni.  pauei  dignoscere  possunl 
Vera  bona,  atque  illis  multflm  diTersa,  remotfi 
Erroris  nebull — 

Ik  my  bet  Saturday's  paper  I  laid  down  some  thougbn 
upon  devotion  in  general,  and  aliall  here  show  what  were  tlio 
notions  of  the  most  refined  heathens  on  this  subject,  aa  they 
are  represented  in  Plato's  dialogue  upon  prayer,  entitled, 
"  Alcibiftdes  the  Second,"  which  douhtlesa  gave  occaeion  to 
Juvenal's  tenth  Satire,  and  to  the  second  Satire  of  Persiua ; 
aa  the  last  of  these  authors  has  almost  transcribed  the  pre- 
ceding dialogue,  entitled, "  Alcibiades  the  First,"  in  his  fourth 

The  speakers  in  this  dialogue  upon  prayer,  are  Socrates 
and  Alcibiades ;  and  the  substance  of  it  (when  drawn  to- 
gether out  of  the  intricacies  and  digreasions)  aa  follows. 

Socrates  meeting  his  pupil  Alcibiades,  aa  he  waa  going  to 
his  devotiona,  and  obaerving  his  eyes  to  be  fi.£ed  upon  the 
earth  with  great  seriousness  and  attention,  tells  him,  that  ho 
had  reason  to  be  thoughtful  on  that  occasion,  since  it  was 
possible  for  a  man  to  bring  down  evils  upon  himself  by  hia 
own  prayers,  and  that  those  things  which  the  goda  send  him 
in  answer  to  hia  petitions  might  turn  to  his  destruction; 
This,  says  he,  may  not  only  happen  when  a  man  prays  for 
■what  be  knows  ia  mischievous  in  its  own  nature,  aa  Oedipus 
implored  the  goda  to  aow  diasension  between  his  sons  ;  but 
when  he  prays  for  what  he  believes  would  be  for  his  good, 
and  against  what  he  believes  would  be  to  hia  detriment. 
This  the  phUosopher  shows  must  necessarily  happen  among 
us,  since  most  men  are  blinded  with  iguoranee,  prejudice,  or 
passion,  which  hinder  them  from  seeing  auch  thinga  as  are 
really  beneficial  to  them.  For  an  instance,  he  asks  Aleibiadea, 
whether  he  would  not  be  thoroughly  pleased  if  that  god  to 
whom  he  was  going  to  address  himself  should  promise  to 
make  him  the  sovereign  of  the  whole  earth  ?  Alcibiades  an- 
Bwera,  That  he  should  doubtless  look  upon  such  a  promise  aa 
the  greatest  favour  that  could  be  bestowed  upon  nim.  So- 
crates then  asks  him,  If,  after  receiving  this  great  favour,  he 
would  be  content  to  bae  hia  life  ?  or  if  he  would  receive  it 
tiioughbe  was  sure  he  would  make  an  ill  uae  of  it  £     ToVJi^a 


whiet  questionB  Aleibiadefl  a-nswere  in  the  negative.  Soerate* 
then  bIiows  bim  from  the  examplee  of  others,  how  these 
might  very  probably  be  the  eflecte  of  such  a  blessing.  He 
then  adds,  tliat  other  reputad  pieces  of  good  fortune,  as  that 
of  having  a  son,  or  procuring  the  highest  post 'in  a  govern- 
ment, are  aubject  to  the  like  fatal  conaequences ;  which 
nevertheless,  says  lie,  men  ardently  desire,  and  would  not  fail 
to  pray  for,  if  they  thought  their  prayers  might  bo  effectual 
for  the  obtaining  of  them, 

Having  established  tliis  great  point,  that  all  the  most  ap- 
parent blesaingB  in  this  life  are  obnosious  to  such  dreadiul 
consequences,  and  that  ho  man  knows  what  in  its  eventa 
would  prove  to  him  a  blessing  or  a  curse,  he  teaches  Al- 
cibiades  after  what  manner  lie  ought  to  pray. 

In  the  first  place,  he  recommenda  to  mm,  aa  the  model  of 
his  devotion,  a  short  prayer,  which  a  Gireek  poet  composed 
for  the  use  of  hia  friends,  in  the  following  words :  "  0  .Tnpi- 
ler,  give  ua  tboae  things  which  are  good  for  us,  whether  they 
are  such  things  ae  we  pray  for,  or  such  tbings  as  we  do  not 
pray  for ;  and  remove  from  ua  those  things  which  are  hurtful,' 
though  they  are  auch  things  aa  we  pray  for." 

In  the  second  place,  that  his  diacijile  may  ask  such  things 
as  are  expedient  for  him,  he  shows  him,  that  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  apply  himself  to  the  study  of  true  wisdom,  anil 
to  the  Itnowleage  of  that  which  is  his  chief  good,  and  the 
most  suitable  to  the  excellency  of  his  nature. 

In  the  third  and  last  place,  he  informs  him,  that  the  best 
methods  he  could  make  use  of  to  draw  down  blessings  upon 
himself,  and  to  render  hia  prayers  acceptable,  would  be  to 
live  in  a  constant  practice  of  his  duty  towards  the  goda,  and 
towards  men.  Under  tbia  head  be  very  much  recommends 
a  form  of  prayer  the  Laeedaimoninna  made  nae  of,  in  which 
they  petition  the  gods,  "  to  give  them  all  good  things,  so  long, 
aa  rhoy  are  virtuous."  Under  this  head,  likewise,  he  gives  a^ 
verv  remarkable  account  of  an  oracle  to  the  following  pur^aa.! 

When  the  Athenians,  in  the  war  with  the  Laced»monii "  " ' 
received  many  defeats  both  by  sea  and  land,  they  sent  a 
sago  to  the  oracle  of  Jupiter  Ammou,  to  ask  the  reason  why 
they,  who  erected  so  many  temples  to  the  gods,  and  adorned 
theui  with  such  costly  offerings  ; — why  ther,  who  had  insti- 
tuted so  many  festivals,  and  accompanied  them  with  audi 
pomps  and  ceremonies  ; — iii  short,  why  they  who  had   '  '    '  ' 



TCo.  ao7. 


m an V  hecatombs  at  their  altars,  should  be  less  BHceeasf  ill  than 
the  LaceJtemoniaiia,  who  fell  so  short  of  them  in  aU  theee 
pairfcicnltira.  To  this,  says  he,  the  oracle  made  the  foUowing 
reply :  "  I  am  better  pleased  with  the  prayer  of  the  Lacedie- 
moniaoB,  than  with  all  the  oblations  of  the  Greelis."  Ah 
this  prayer  implied  and  encouraged  virtue  in  those  who  made 
it,  the  phUoBOpher  proceeds  to  show  how  the  most  viciona 
man  might  be  devout,  so  far  an  victims  could  make  him,  but 
that  his  offerings  were  regarded  by  the  gods  as  bribes,  and 
Ilia  petitions  as  blaBphemies.  He  likewise  quotes  on  this 
occasion  two  verseH  out  of  Homer,  in  which  the  poet  says, 
that  the  scent  of  the  Trojan  sacrifices  was  earned  up  to 
heaven  by  the  winds ;  but  that  it  wae  not  acceptable  to  the 
gods,  who  were  displeased  with  Priam  and  all  his  people. 

The  conclusion  of  this  dialogue  is  very  remarkable.  80- 
cratea  having  deterred  Alribiades  from  the  prayers  and  sacri- 
fices which  be  was  going  to  offer,  by  setting  forth  the  above- 
mentioned  difficulties  of  perfonning  that  duty  aa  he  ought, 
sdda  these  words :  "  We  must  therefore  wait  till  such  time 
as  we  may  learn  how  to  behave  ourselves  towards  the  gods, 
and  towards  men."  But  when  will  that  time  come,  (says 
Alcibiadea,)  and  who  is  it  that  will  instruct  us  ?  for  I  would 
fain  see  this  man,  whoever  he  is.  It  is  one  (says  Socrates) 
who  takes  care  of  you ;  but,  as  Homer  tells  us,  that  Minerva 
removed  the  mist  from  Diomedes  his  eyes,  that  he  might 

C'nly  discover  both  gods  and  men ;  so  the  darkness  that 
gs  upon  your  mind  must  be  removed,  before  you  are  able 
to  diBcem  what  is  good  and  what  is  evil.  Let  him  remove 
from  my  mind  (says  Alcibiades)  the  darkness,  and  what  else 
he  pleases  ;  I  am  determined  to  refuse  nothing  he  shall  order 
me,  whoever  he  is,  so  that  I  may  become  tne  better  by  it. 
The  remaining  part  of  this  dialogue  is  very  obscure  :  there  is 
something  in  it  that  would  make  ua  think  Socrates  hinted  at 
himself,  when  he  spoke  of  this  divine  teacher  who  was  to 
come  into  the  world,  did  not  he  own  that  he  himself  was  in 
this  respect  as  much  at  a  loss,  and  in  aa  great  distress,  as  the 
rest  of  mankind. 

Some  learned  men  look  upon  this  conclusion  aa  a  prediction 
of  our  Saviour,  or  at  least  that  Socrates,  like  the  high  priest, 
prophesied  unknowingly,  and  pointed  at  that  Divine  teacher 
who  was  to  come  into  the  world  some  ages  alter  him. 
orer  that  may  be,  wrfind  that  this  great  pbiloso^hec  m 


the  light  of  reason,  that  it  was  Huitable  to  the  goodncBB  of 
the  Divine  nutiire,  to  aend  a,  person  into  the  world  who  should 
instruct  mnnViad  in  the  duties  of  religion,  and,  in  pj  " 
t*ach  them  how  to  pray. 

Wloever  reads  this  ahstraet  of  Plato's  discourse  o 
will,  I  believe,  naturally  make  thia  reflection.  That  the  g 
founder  of  our  reliffion,  as  well  by  bis  own  example,  as  in  the 
form  of  prayer  which  he  taught  bis  disciples,  did  not  only 
keep  up  to  those  rules  which  the  light  of  nature  had  sug- 
gestfld  to  this  great  philosopher,  but  instructed  his  diaciplea 
ui  the  whole  extent  of  this  duty,  as  well  as  of  all  others.  He 
directed  them  to  the  proper  object  of  adoration,  and  taught 
them,  according  to  the  third  rule  above-mentioned,  to  apply 
themselves  to  him  in  their  closets,  without  show  or  ostenta- 
tion, and  to  worship  him  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  As  the  La- 
cedfemoniana  in  their  form  of  prayer  implored  tbe  gods  in 
general  to  give  them  all  good  things  so  long  as  they  were  vir- 
tuous, we  ask,  in  particular,  "  that  our  offences  may  be  for- 
given, as  we  forgive  those  of  others.  "  If  we  look  into  tbe 
second  rule  whim  Socrates  has  prescribed,  namely.  That  we 
should  apply  ourselves  to  the  knowledge  of  such  things  as 
are  heat  for  us,  this  too  is  explained  at  iM-ge  in  tbe  doctrines 
of  the  gospel,  where  we  are  taught  in  several  instances  to  re- 
gard those  things  as  curses,  which  appear  as  blessings  in  the 
eye  of  the  world  ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  to  esteem  those  things 
as  blessings,  which  to  the  generahty  of  mankind  appear  as 
curses.  Thus  in  the  form  which  is  prescribed  to  us,  we  onlj 
pray  for  that  happiness  which  is  our  chief  good,  and  the 
great  end  of  our  existence,  when  we  petition  tbe  Supreme 
Being  for  "  the  coming  of  his  kingdom,"  being  solicitous  for 
no  other  temporal  blessing  hut  our  "daily  sustenance." 
On  the  other  side,  we  pray  against  nothing  but  sin,  and 
against  "  evil "  in  geneiJ,  leaving  it  with  Omniscience  to  de- 
termine what  is  really  such.  If  we  look  into  the  first  of  So- 
crates his  rules  of  prayer,  in  which  he  recommends  the  above- 
mentioned  form  of  the  ancient  poet,  we  find  that  form  not 
only  comprehended,  hut  very  much  improved,  in  the  petition, 
wherein  we  pray  to  the  Supreme  Being  that  his  "  will  may 
be  done;  "  i^ch  is  of  the  same  force  with  that  form  which 
our  Saviour  used,  when  be  prayed  against  the  most  painful 
and  moat  ignominious  of  deaths,  "  Nevertheless  not  my  wiU|j] 
but  thine  be  done."     This  comprehensive  petition  is  tVf^ 

THE  BPX^Ti^S.' 

noafc  humble,  aa  well  aa  tlie  moat  prudent,  that  can  be  offered 
up  from  the  creature  to  his  Creator,  as  it  suppoees  the  8u- 
ireme  Being  wills  nothing  but  what  is  for  our  good,  and  that 
le  knows  better  than  ourselves  what  is  so. 

No.  209.     TTJESDAT,  OCTOBEK  30. 

Theee  are  no  authors  1  am  more  pleased  with,  than  thow 
rho  show  human  nature  in  a  yariety  of  views,  and  describe 
e  several  ages  of  the  world  in  their  different  manners.  A 
eader  cannot  be  more  rationally  entertained,  than  by  eom- 
jaring  the  virtues  and  vices  of  his  own  times,  with  those 
ffhich  prevailed  in  the  times  of  his  fore-fathera ;  and  drawing 
t parallel  in  his  mind  between  his  own  private  chara<}ter, 
sad  that  of  other  persona,  whether  of  his  own  age,  or  of  the 
Igea  that  went  before  him.  The  contemplation  of  mankind 
jinder  these  changeable  colours,  is  apt  to  shame  us  out  of 
ny  particular  yice,  or  animate  ua  to  any  particular  virtue , 
0  make  ua  pleased  or  displeased  with  ouraelvea  in  the  moat 
proper  points,  to  clear  our  minds  of  prejudice  and  prepos- 
session, and  rectify  that  narrowness  of  temper  which  incbnea 
IfB  to  think  amies  of  those  who  differ  from  ourselves. 
.  If  we  look  into  the  manners  of  the  most  remote  ages  of 
ihe  world,  we  discover  human  nature  in  her  simplicity  ;  and 
)  more  we  come  downward  towards  our  own  times,  may 
ibaerve  her  hiding  herself  in  artificea  and  refinements,  pol- 
ished insensibly  out  of  her  original  plainness,  and  at  lengtli 
pntirely  loat  under  form  and  ceremony,  and  (what  we  call) 
->od-breeding.  Head  the  accounts  of  men  and  women  as 
ley  are  given  us  by  the  most  ancient  writers,  both  aacred 
wid  promie,  and  you  would  think  you  were  reading  the  his- 
tory of  another  species. 

Among  the  writers  of  antiquity,  there  are  none  who  in- 
struct ua  more  openlv  in  the  manners  of  their  respective 
timea  in  which  tney  lived,  than  those  who  have  employed 
themselvea  in  satire,  under  what  drees  soever  it  may  appear ; 
a  there  are  no  other  authors  whose  province  it  ia  to  enter 
o  directly  into  the  ways  of  men,  and  set  their  miscarriages 
D  BO  strong  a  light, 

SiinonideB,  e.  poet  futnous  in  his  generatroa,  is,  I  think, 
author  of  the  olaest  satiru  that  is  now  eztaat ;  and,  as  flome 
Bay,  of  the  first  that  was  ever  written.  TKis  poet  flourished 
about  four  hundred  years  after  the  siege  of  Troy  ;  and  ahows, 
by  his  way  of  writinK,  tlio  simnlicity,  or  rather  coarseness,  of 
the  age  in  which  he  lived.  I  nave  taken  notice,  in  my  hun- 
dred and  aiity-firat  speculation,  that  the  rule  of  observing 
what  the  French  call  the  Simteance  in  an  aUusion,  has  been 
found  out  of  latter  years ;  and  that  the  ancients,  provided 
there  was  a  likeness  in  their  similitudes,  did  not  much  trou- 
ble themaelvea  about  the  decency  of  the  comparison.  The 
satires  or  Iambics  of  Simonides,  with  which  I  shall  entertain 
my  readers  in  the  present  paper,  are  a  remsrkable  instance 
ol  what  I  formerly  advancea.  The  subject  of  this  satire  is 
woman.  He  describes  the  ses  in  their  several  characters, 
which  he  derivea  to  them  from  a  fanciful  supposition  raised 
upon  the  doctrine  of  pre-esistence.  He  tells  U9,  That  the 
gods  formed  the  souls  of  women  out  of  those  seeds  and  prin- 
ciples which  compose  several  kinds  of  aniraala  and  elements, 
and  that  their  good  or  bad  dispositions  arise  in  them  accord- 
ing as  such  and  such  seeds  and  principles  predominate  in 
their  constitutions.  I  have  translated  the  author  very  faith- 
fully, and  if  not  word  for  word,  (which  oiu'  language  would 
not  bear),  at  least  so  as  to  comprehend  every  one  ot  his  sen- 
timents, without  adding  anything  of  my  own,  I  have  al- 
ready apologized  for  this  author's  want  ot  delicacy,  and  must 
iVirther  premise,  that  the  following  satire  afiects  only  some 
of  the  lower  part  of  the  eei,  and  not  those  who  have  been 
refined  by  a  polite  education,  which  was  not  so  common  in 
the  age  of  this  poet, 

"  In  the  begmning  God  made  the  souls  of  woman-kind 
out  of  different  materials,  and  in  a  separate  state  irom  their 

"  The  souls  of  one  kind  of  women  were  formed  out  of 
those  ingredients  which  compose  a  swine.  A  woman  of  this 
make  is  a  slut  in  her  house,  and  a  glutton  at  her  table.  She 
il  uncleanly  in  her  person,  a  slattern  in  her  dress,  and  her 
faniilr  is  no  better  than  a  dung-hill. 

"  A  second  sort  of  female  soul  waa  formed  out  of  the 
same  materials  that  enter  into  the  compoaition  of  a  fox. 
Buch  an  one  is  what  we  call  a  notable,  discerning  woman,    j 
who  lias  an  insight  into  everything,  whether  it  be  good  o 

tad.  In  thiB  Bpeciea  of  females  there  are  some  virtmius  and 
nme  vicious. 

"  A  third  kind  of  women  are  made  up  of  canine  particles. 
These  are  what  w©  commonly  caD  Scolds,  who  imitate  the 
animalB  out  of  which  they  were  taken,  that  are  always  buBy 
and  harking,  that  anarl  at  every  one  who  comes  in  their  way, 
and  live  in  perpetual  clamour. 

"  The  fourth  kind  of  women  were  made  out  of  the  earth. 
These  are  your  sluggards,  who  pass  away  their  time  in  ind6- 
lence  and  ignorance,  hoyer  over  the  iire  a  whole  winter,  and 
apply  themselves  with  alacrity  to  no  kind  of  husinesa  but 

"  The  fifth  species  of  females  were  made  out  of  the  sea. 
These  are  women  of  variable,  nneven  tempera,  sometimes  all 
Btorni  and  tempeet,  sometimes  all  calm  and  Bunsbine.  The 
stranger  who  sees  one  of  these  in  her  smiles  and  smoothness, 
would  cry  her  up  for  a  miracle  of  good  humour;  but  on  a 
Budden  her  looks  and  words  are  changed,  she  is  nothing  but 
fury  and  outrage,  noise  and  hurricane. 

"  The  aixth  species  were  made  up  of  the  ingredients  which 
compose  an  ass,  or  a  beast  of  burden.  These  are  naturally 
exceeding  slothful,  but  upon  the  husband's  exerting  his  au- 
thority, will  live  upon  hard  &re,  and  do  everything  to  please 
him.  They  are,  however,  far  from  being  averse  to  venereal 
pleasure,  and  seldom  refuse  a  male  companion. 

"The  cat  furnished  materi^a  for  a  seventh  species  of 
women,  who  are  of  a  melancholy,  ftoward,  unamiable  nature, 
and  so  repugnant  to  the  ofiers  of  love,  that  they  fly  in  the 
fiice  of  their  husband  when  he  approaches  them  with  con- 
jugal endearments.  This  species  of  women  are  likewise  sub- 
ject to  little  thefts,  cheats,  and  pilferings. 

"  The  mare  with  a  flowing  maue,  which  was  never  broke 
to  any  serv-ile  toil  and  labour,  composed  an  eighth  species  of 
women.  These  are  they  who  have  nttle  regard  for  their  hus- 
bands, who  pass  away  their  time  in  dressing,  bathing,  and 
perfuming ;  who  throw  their  hair  into  the  nicest  curls,  and 
trick  it  up  with  the  fairest  flowers  and  garlands.  A  woman 
cf  this  species  is  a  very  pretty  thing  for  a  stranger  to  look 
upon,  but  very  detrimental  to  the  owner,  unless  it  be  a  king 
OP  prince  who  takes  a  fancy  to  such  a  toy. 

"  The  ninth  species  of  females  were  ttien  out  of  tho  ape. 
STbeae  are  such  as  are  both  ugly  and  ill-natured,  who  i ' 

nothing  beautiful  in  themselves,  tati  endeavour  to  di 
from  or  ridicule  everything  which  appears  so  in  others. 

"The  tenth,  and  last  species  of  women,  were  made  t 
the  bee :  and  happy  ia  the  man  who  geta  such  on  one  for 
wife.  She  is  altogether  faultless  and  unhlameable ;  1 
family  flourishes  and  improves  by  her  good  managemei 
She  loves  her  husband,  and  ia  beloved  by  him.  She  br* 
him  a  race  of  beautiful  and  virtuous  children.  She  dii 
guishea  herself  among  her  ses.  She  is  surroimded  ■ 
graces.  She  never  sita  among  the  loose  tribe  of  women,  nor 
passes  away  her  time  with  them  iu  wanton  discourses.  Sbgi 
IS  full  of  virtue  and  prudence,  and  is  the  best  wife  that 
Jupiter  can  bestow  on  man." 

1  Bhall  conclude  these  Iambics  with  the  motto  of  thi* 
paper,  which  is  a  fragment  of  the  same  author :  "  A 
cannot  possees  anything  that  ia  better  than  a  good  woi 
nor  anything  that  is  worse  than  a  bad  one." 

As  the  poet  has  shown  a  great  penetration  in  this  diversitj^ 
of  female  characters,  he  baa  avoided  the  fault  which  Juvenu 
and  Monsieur  Boileau  are  guilty  of,  the  former  iu  his  sixth, 
and  the  other  in  his  last  satire,  where  they  have  endeavoureS 
to  expose  the  sex  in  general,  without  doing  justice  to  th» 
valuaDle  part  of  it.  Such  levelling  satires  are  of  no  use  to- 
the  world,  and  for  this  reason  I  have  often  wondered  hosTi 
the  French  author  above-mentioned,  who  was  a  man  of  ex* 
qniaite  judgment  and  a  lover  of  virtue,  could  think  human 
nature  a  proper  subject  for  satire  in  another  of  his  celebrated 
pieces,  which  is  called  "  The  Satire  upon  Man."  "What  vice 
or  frailty  can  a  discourse  correct,  wmch  censures  the  whole 
species  alike,  and  endeavours  to  show  by  some  superficial 
strokes  of  wit,  that  brutes  are  the  more  excellent  creatures 
of  the  two  ?  A  satire  should  expose  nothing  but  what  is  cor- 
rigible, and  make  a  due  discrimination  between  those  who 
are,  and  those  who  are  not  the  proper  objects  of  it. 

No.  311.    THUHSDAY,  JS^OTEMBEE  1. 

Q9  jocaii  fabulis.    pHfD. 
HjiTDire  lately  translated  the  fragment  of  an  old  ^ 
which  describes  womankind  under  several  characters, 

ippoHCB  them  to  have  drawn  their  different  mannere  and 
— litions  from  those  animals  and  elementa  out  of  which 

e  tella  ua  they  were  compounded ;  I  had  some  thoughts  o 
iving  the  sex  their  revenge,  hy  laying  together  in  another 
aper  the  many  vieioua  characters  which  prevail  in  the  male 
'orld,  and  showing  the  different  ingredients  that  go  to  the 
Dating  up  of  snch  different  humonra  and  oon8titntion§. 
[orace  has  a  thought  which  is  something  akin  to  this,  when, 
D  order  to  excuse  himself  to  his  miatress,  for  an  invective 
rhich  he  bad  written  against  her,  and  to  account  for  that  im- 
easonable  fury  with  which  the  heart  of  man  ia  often  trans- 
orted,he  tells  us,  that  when  Prometbeua  made  his  man  of  clay, 
1  the  kneading  up  of  the  heart  he  seasoned  it  with  some 
mous  particles  ot  the  lion.  But  upon  turning  this  plan  to 
nd  fro  in  my  thoughts,  1  observed  so  many  unaccountable 
lumours  in  man,  that  I  did  not  know  out  of  what  animals  to 
tehthem.  Male  aoula  are  diversified  with  ao  many  characters 
bat  the  world  haa  not  variety  of  materials  sufficient  to 
iirnish  out  their  different  tempers  and  inclinations.  The 
ireation,  with  all  ite  animals  and  elements,  would  not  be  large 
nough  to  supply  their  several  extravagances. 
Instead,  therefore,  of  pursuing  the  thought  of  Simonidea, 
shall  observe,  that  as  he  has  exposed  the  vicious  part  of 
iromen  from  the  doctrine  of  pre-esistence,  some  of  the  an- 
ient phOosophera  have,  in  a  manner,  satirized  the  vicious 
«rt  of  the  nnman  species  in  general,  from  a  notion  of 
be  soul's  poat  existence,  if  I  may  so  call  it ;  and  that  as 
Jimonidea  describes  brutes  entering  into  the  composition  of 
romen,  others  have  represented  human  sonls  aa  entering  io- 
into  brutes.  This  is  commonly  termed  the  doctrine  of 
ransmigrafcion,  which  supposes  tSiat  human  souls,  upon 
heir  leaving  the  body,  become  the  souls  of  such  kinds  of 
rates  aa  they  moat  resemble  in  their  manners ;  or  to  give 
n  account  of  it,  as  Mr.  Dryden  has  described  it  ia  his  trans- 
ition of  Pythagoras  his  speech  in  the  fifteenth  book  of 
)vid,  where  that  philosopher  dissuades  hia  hearers  from  eat- 

ThuB  all  things  are  Mt  altered,  nothing  dies, 
And  here  and  there  the  unbodied  spirit  fliea, 
Bj  time,  di  IbrcG.  ut  sickness  dispossessed. 
And  lodges  wliere  it  lighle,  in  bird  or  beast, 
Or  bauniB  without  till  ready  limbs  it  Bnd, 
And  acIuatcB  those  according  to  their  kind ; 

ADDtBOS  a  irOBC* 

From  tenement  It    _   .  ._ 

The  (onl  ia  dUt  tlK  Hune,  the  figim  aitj  bat 

ThAi  Let  not  pietf  be  pal  to  fli^ 

To  pteue  tlie  tane  of  ^tlon-appetil« ; 

But  niflra  inmile  Krak  Koue  to  dwell, 

Lett  fram  theii  uaU  your  pirenti  jon  exp 

Witli  rebtd  bongef  Csed  upon  your  kind. 

Or  bom  ■  bea«c  dUlodge  ■  biotber's  mind. 
Ilato,  in  the  Tieion  of  Ems  the  Armeni&n,  wbich  I 
powiiblj  make  the  subject  of  a  future  BpecuJation,  n 
•onto  benutiful  transmigratioDB ;  as  that  the  soul  of  Orphenq 
who  WM  muaical,  melaneholj-,  and  awoman-hater,  ent^rM  intt 
a  KWaQ ;  the  soul  of  Ajas,  whieh  was  all  wrath  and  fierceness. 
intoalion;  the  soul  of  AgamemDon,  that  was  rapaciousand 
imperial,  into  an  eagle;  and  the  soul  of  Thersit^s,  who  was  • 
iiiimiu  and  a  buffoon,  into  a  monkey.  ; 

Mr,  CongreTe,  Jn  a  prologue  to  one  of  his  comedies,  haft 
touched  upon  this  doctrine;  with  gi^at  humour.  ! 

Thu»  Arutotle's  lioul,  of  old  that  was,  I 

May  now  be  damned  tu  animate  an  aas  ;  I 

Or  HI  this  very  houso,  for  alight  wo  know,  •I 

Is  doing  paJnlul  pcQance  in  »ome  beau.  J 

I  shall  fill  up  this  paper  with  some  lettera,  which  my  laet 
Tuesday's  speculation  boa  produced.  My  following  corre- 
spondents will  show,  what  I  there  observed,  that  the  specula- 
tion of  that  day  affocta  only  the  lower  part  of  the  aex. 

"  From  my  house  in  the  Strand,  October  30, 1711. 
"Mb.  Speotatob, 

Upon  reading  your  Tuesilay'a  paper,  I  find  by  several 
(ymptoma  in  my  conatitutioii,  that  I  am  a  bee.  My  shop,  or 
if  you  pioaee  to  call  it  ao,  my  cell,  is  in  that  great  hiye  of  fe- 
maltis  wliich  goes  by  the  name  of  the  New-Bschange ;  where 
I  am  daily  employed  in  gathering  together  a  little  stock  of 

f;ttiii  from  the  finest  flowers  about  the  town ;  I  mean  the 
allies  and  the  boaua.  I  have  a  numerous  swarm  of  children, 
to  whom  I  give  the  best  education  1  am  able  :  but,  sir,  it  is 
my  mislbrtune  to  be  married  to  a  drone,  who  lives  upon  what 
I  got,  without  bringing  anything  inio  the  common  stock. 
Now,  sir,  as  on  the  one  nand  I  take  care  not  to  behave  myself 
towards  him  like  a  wasp,  ao  likewise  I  would  not  have  him 
took  upon  mo  as  a  humble-bee  ;  for  which  reason  I  do  all  I 
"  ■   to  put  him  upon  laying  up  provisions  for  a  bad  day,  an^ 


equenfly  represent  to  him  the  fatal  effects  his  aioth  aud 
jgligenye  may  bring  upon  lis  in  our  old  age.  I  must  beg  that 
)u  will  join  with  me  in  your  good  advice  upon  this  occasion. 
id  you  win  for  ever  ohbge 

"  Tour  humhle  servant,  Melissa." 
"  IHccadilhj,  October  31, 1711. 
"  8lB, 

I  am  joined  in  wedlock,  for  my  sins,  to  one  of  those  iilliee 

wlw  are  described  in  the  old  poet  with  that  hard  name  yon 

pve  UB  the  other  day.     She  has  a  flowing  mane,  and  a  skin 

8  soft  OS,  ailk :  hut,  sir,  she  paaaea  half  her  life  at  her  glass, 

nd  almost  ruins  me  in  ribbons.     For  my  own  part,  1  am  a 

_ilainhandicraftman,flnd  in  danger  ofbreakiug  by  her  laziness 

^d  eipensivenesH.    Pray,  master,  tell  me  in  your  nest  paper, 

rhether  I  may  not  expect  of  her  so  much  drudgery  aa  to 

ike  care  of  her  family,  and  curry  her  hide  in  case  of  refusal, 

"  Tour  loving  friend,  Eabhabt  Bhittle." 

"  Cheapiidc,  October  30. 

"  Mr,  Siectaxoe, 

I  am  mightily  pleased  with  the  humour  of  the  cat  j 
e  so  kind  as  to  enlarge  upon  that  subject. 

"  Tours  till  death,  Josiah  Henpeck." 
"  P.  S.  Tou  must  know  I  am  married  to  a  Grimalkin." 
"  Wapping,  October  31,  1711. 

"  8lB, 

Ever  since  your  Spectator  of  Tuesday  last  came 
ito  our  family,  my  husband  is  pleased  to  call  me  his  Oceana, 
^^^  cause  the  foolish  old  poet  that  you  have  translated,  says, 
fhat  the  souls  of  some  women  are  made  of  sea-water.  This, 
b  Beams,  has  encouraged  my  sauce-boi  to  be  witty  upon  me. 
inien  I  amangry.he  cries,  Pr'ythee,  my  dear, 'be  calm;' 
chen  I  chide  one  of  my  servants,  Pr'ythee,  child,  '  do  not 
duster,'  He  had  the  impudence  about  an  hour  ago  to  tell 
ae,  that  he  was  a  seafaring  man,  and  must  eipect  to  divide 
lis  life  between  '  storm  and  sunshine.'  When  I  bestir  my- 
©Ifwithanysphitinmyfamily,  it  is  'high  sea' in  his  house; 
ind  when  I  sit  still  without  doing  anything,  his  affairs  for- 
looth  are  '  wind-bound,'  When  I  ask  him  whether  it  rains, 
le  makes  answer.  It  is  no  matter,  so  that  it  be  '  fair  weaths'' 
itrithin  doors.    In  short,  sir,  I  cannot  speak  my  miiid.&a0 

92  ASDUOS'fl  If^OB. 

to  him,  but  I  either  '  iwell'  or  '  ra^'  or  do  something 
■a  ait  flt  for  a  civil  voman  to  hear.  Fray,  Mr.  Sfectai 
■inc«  fou  are  so  aharp  upoa  other  women,  let  us  know  what 
matenal*  your  wife  u  made  of,  if  yoa  have  one.  I  suppose 
you  woul(f  make  us  a  parcel  of  poor-spirited,  tame,  insipid 
creotureit ;  but,  Htr,  I  would  hare  you  to  know,  we  have  &9 

jrood  puiiona  in  ua  as  yourself^  and  that  a  woman  was  ni '^ 

OMigned  to  be  A  milksop, 

"  Mabtha  Tempbbt, 

No.  218.    SATUaDAY,  NOTEMBEE  J 


Ir  is  the  gretit  art  and  secret  of  Christianity,  if  I  may 
UM  that  phriue,  to  manaee  our  actions  to  the  beat  advantage, 
nnd  direct  thoni  in  auch  a  manner,  that  everything  we  do 
may  turn  to  account  at  that  great  day,  when  everytbbg  we 
have  done  will  be  act  before  ua. 

In  order  to  pve  thia  conHideration  its  full  weight,  we  may 
cast  all  our  octiotia  under  the  division  of  such  as  are  in  them- 
iolvea  uither  good,  evil,  or  indifferent.  If  we  divide  our  in- 
tentions after  the  same  manner,  and  consider  them  with  re- 
gard to  our  nctiona,  wo  may  discover  that  great  art  and  secret 
of  religion  which  I  bnvo  here  mentioned. 

A  goofl  intention  joined  to  n  good  action,  gives  it  its  pro- 
per force  and  elfit'ocy  ;  joined  to  an  evil  action,  eitenuatea 
iti  malignity,  and  in  aome  caaos  may  take  it  wholly  away ; 
and  joined  to  an  iiidiffon-nt  nctien,  turns  it  to  virtue,  and 
makes  it  meritorious  as  far  na  human  actions  can  be  so. 

In  the  next  place,  to  consider  in  the  some  maimer  the  ili/ 
fluciiw  of  Ml  evil  iutention  upon  our  actions.  An  evil  intei' 
tiuii  jM^rverta  the  best  of  actions,  and  makes  them  in  realil 
what  the  fathers  with  a  wittv  kind  of  leal  have  termed  tl 
virtues  of  the  heathen  worlil,  so  many  "  ahining  sins."  J 
destroys  the  innocence  of  on  indifierent  action,  and  gives  ^ 
evil  action  all  poasiWe  blackness  and  horror,  or,  in  the  oa 
phatical  language  of  aacrcd  writ,  makes  "  sin  eiceedi' 

If,  ill  the  kst  place,  we  ronaider  the  nature  of  an  indif 
int«ution,  we  shall  find  that  it  destroys  the  merit  < 
wtioD ;  «bat«a,  but  never  takes  away,  the  nudigui^ 

So.  313. 


an  t!\i\  action ;  and  leaves  an  indifferGnt  action  in  its  natural 
state  of  indifference. 

It  is  therefore  of  unspeakable  adTantage  to  posBeas  our 
minds  with  an  habitual  good  intention,  and  to  aim  all  our 
thoughts,  words,  and  actions  at  some  laudable  end,  whether 
it  be  the  glory  of  our  Maker,  the  good  of  mankind,  or  the 
benefit  of  our  own  souls. 

This  is  a  sort  of  thrift  or  good  husbandry  in  moral  life, 
which  does  not  throw  away  any  single  action,  but  makes 
every  one  go  as  far  as  it  can.  It  multiplies  the  means  of 
salvation,  increases  the  number  of  our  virtues,  and  diminishes 
that  of  our  vices. 

There  is  something  very  devout,  though  not  so  solid,  in 
Acosta's  answer  to  Limhorch,  who  objects  to  him  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  ceremonies  in  the  Jewish  religion,  as  washings, 
dreasea,  meats,  purgations,  and  the  like.  The  reply  which 
the  Jew  makes  upon  this  occasion,  is,  to  the  beat  ot  my  re- 
membrance, as  follows :  "  Tliere  are  not  duties  enough  (says 
he)  in  the  essential  parts  of  the  law  for  a  lealous  and  active 
obedience.  Time,  place,  and  peraon  are  requisite,  before 
you  have  an  opportunity  of  putting  a  moral  virtue  into 
practice.  We  have  tlierefore,  saya  he,  enlarged  the  sphere 
of  our  duty,  and  made  many  things,  which  are  in  themselves 
indifferent,  a  part  of  our  religion,  that  we  may  have  more 
occasion  of  showing  our  love  to  God,  and  in  all  the  circum- 
etances  of  life  be  doing  something  to  please  him. 

Monsieur  8t.  Evremont  has  endeavoured  to  palliate  the 
superstitions  of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  with  the  same 
kind  of  apology,  where  he  pretends  to  consider  the  different 
spirit  of  the  Papists  and  the  Calviniata,  as  to  the  great  points 
wherein  they  disagree.  He  tells  us,  that  the  lormer  are  ac- 
tuated by  love,  and  the  other  by  fear ;  and  that  in  their  es- 
preasions  of  duty  and  devotion  towards  the  Supreme  Being, 
the  former  seem  particularly  careful  to  do  everything  whicli 
may  possibly  please  him,  and  the  other  to  abstain  from 
everything  that  may  possibly  displease  him. 

But  notwithstanding  this  plausible  reason  with  which 
both  the  Jew  and  the  Koman  Catholic  would  excuse  their 
respective  superstitions,  it  is  certain  there  is  soroethin^  in 
them  very  pernicious  to  mankind,  and  destructive  to  religion ; 
because  the  injunction  of  superfluous  ceremonies  make  such  ■ 
actions  duties,  as  were  before  indifferent,  and  by  that  m 

M  ASDiBoir'a  wobkb. 

renders  religion  more  burthenaome  and  difficult  than  it  ia 
ita  own  nature,  betrays  many  into  eina  of  omission  which 
they  would  not  otherwise  be  guilty  of,  and  fiiea  the  minds  of 
the  vulgar  to  the  ahadowy,  uneasentifll  points,  instead  of  the 
more  weighty  and  more  important  matters  of  the  law. 

This  zealous  and  active  obedience,  however,  takes  place  in 
the  great  point  we  are  recoTumending ;  fop  if,  instead  of  pre- 
Boribing  to  ourselves  indifferent  actions  as  duties,  we  apply 
a  good  intention  to  all  our  moat  indifferent  actions,  we  make 
Our  very  eiistence  one  continued  act  of  obedience,  we  turn 
our  diversions  and  amusements  to  our  eternal  advantage,  and* 
are  pleasing  bim  (whom  we  are  made  to  please)  in  all  the 
circumstances  and  occurrences  of  life. 

It  ia  this  eseellent  frame  of  mind,  this  "  holy  officiousnesH," 
(if  I  may  be  allowed  to  call  it  sucli,)  which  is  recommended 
to  us  by  the  apostle  in  that  uncommon  precept,  wherein  he 
directs  ua  to  propose  to  ourselves  the  glory  of  our  Creator 
in  all  our  most  indifferent  actions,  "  whether  we  eat  or  drink, 
or  whatsoever  we  do." 

A  person  therefore  who  ie  possessed  with  such  an  habitual 
good  mtention,  as  that  which  I  have  been  here  speaking;  of, 
enters  upon  no  single  circumstance  of  life,  without  consider- 
ing it  as  well-pleaaing  to  the  great  Author  of  his  being,  con- 
formable to  the  dictates  of  reason,  suitable  to  human  nature 
in  general,  or  to  the  particular  station  in  which  Providence 
has  placed  him.     He  lives  in  a  perpetual  sense  of  the  Divine 

SBsence,  regards  himself  a.s  acting,  in  the  whole  course  of 
a  existence,  under  the  observation  and  inspection  of  that 
Being,  who  ia  privy  to  all  his  motions  and  all  hia  thoughtB, 
who  knows  hia  "  down-sitting  and  his  uprising,  who  is  aDout 
his  path,  and  about  hia  bed,  and  spieth  out  all  hia  ways." 
In  a  word,  he  remembers  that  the  eye  of  his  Judge  ia  always 
upon  him,  and  in  every  actiion  he  reflects  that  he  is  doing 
wnat  ie  commanded  or  allowed  by  Him,  who  will  hereafter 
either  reward  or  punish  it.  This  was  the  character  of  those 
noly  men  of  old,  who  in  that  beautiful  phrase  of  Scripture, 
are  said  to  have  "walked  with  God." 

When  I  employ  myself  upon  a  paper  of  morality,  I  gener- 
ally consider  now  I  may  recommend  the  particular  virtue 
which  I  treat  of,  by  the  precepts  or  examples  of  the  ancient 
heathens ;  by  that  means,  if  possible,  to  shame  those  who 
have  greater  advantages  of  knowing  their  duty,  and  therefore 





No.  215.  1 

greater  obligations  to  perform  it,  into  a  better  courae 
besides  tbat  many  among  us  are  unreasonably  disposed  to 
^ve  a  fairer  hearing  to  a  pagan  philosopher  tban  to  a 
Christian  writer, 

I  Bhall  therefore  produce  an  instance  of  this  eicellent 
frame  of  mind  in  a  speech  of  Socrates,  which  ia  quoted  by 
Erasmua.  This  great  philosopher,  on  the  day  of  hia  execu- 
tion, a  little  before  the  draught  of  poison  was  brought  to 
him,  entertaining  his  friends  with  a  discourse  on  the  immor- 
tality of  the  aoiJ.,  has  these  words :  "  Whether  or  no  God 
will  approve  of  my  actions  I  know  not ;  but  tliis  I  am  sure 
of,  that  I  have  at  all  times  made  it  my  endeavour  to  please 
him,  and  I  have  a  good  hope  that  this  my  endeavour  will  be 
accepted  by  him."  We  find  in  these  words  of  that  great 
man,  the  habitual  good  intention  which  I  would  here  incul- 
cate, and  with  which  that  divine  philosopher  always  acted. 
I  ehall  only  add,  that  Erasmus,  who  was  im  unbigoted 
Boman  Catholic,  was  so  much  transported  with  this  passage 
of  Socrates,  that  he  could  scarce  forbear  looking  upon  him 
ea  a,  saint,  and  desiring  him  to  pray  for  liim  ;  or  as  tbat  in- 
genious and  learned  writer  has  expressed  himself  in  a  much 
more  lively  manner,  "  When  1  reflect  on  such  a  speech  pro- 
nounced by  such  a  person,  I  can  scarce  forbear  crying  out, 
Sanete  Socrates,  ora  pro  nobis.  0  holy  Socrates,  pray  for  U8.'j 

No.  215.    TUESDAY,  NOVEMBER  G. 


— Ingcnuaa  didiciase  fii 

I  COSaiDEE  an  human  aoid  withoiit  education,  like  marble 
in  the  quarry,  which  shows  none  of  its  inherent  beauties,  till 
the  skill  of  the  poUsher  fetches  out  the  colours,  makes  the 
Bur&ce  shine,  and  discovers  every  ormuuental  cloud,  spot,  and 
vein,  that  runs  through  the  body  of  it.  Education,  after  the 
same  manner,  when  tt  works  upon  a  noble  mind,  draws  out 
to  view  every  latent  virtue  and  perfection,  which  without 
such  helps  ore  never  able  to  make  their  appearance. 

If  my  reader  will  give  me  leave  to  change  the  allusion  so 
soon  upon  him,  I  shall  make  use  of  the  same  instance  to 
illustrate  the  force  of  education,  which  Aristotle  has  brought 
to  explain  hie  doctrine  of  substantial  forma,  when  he  teU&'oa 

that  a  statue  lies  liid  in  a  block  of  marble ;  and  Ihat  tho  art 
of  the  slaniary  only  cleara  away  the  auperfluous  matter,  and 
removes  the  rubbiah.  The  figure  is  in  the  stone,  the  sculptor 
only  finds  it.  What  aculpture  ia  to  a  block  of  marble,  edu- 
cation is  to  an  human  soul.  The  philosopher,  the  saint,  or 
the  hem,  the  wise,  the  good,  or  the  great  man,  very  often  lie 
hid  and  concealed  in  a  plebeian,  which  a  proper  education, 
might  have  disinterred,  and  have  brought  to  light.  I  am," 
therefore,  much  deUghted  vrith  reading  the  accounts  of" 
aavage  nations,  and  with  contemplating  those  virtues  whieli 
are  wild  and  uncultivated ;  to  see  courage  exerting  itself  in 
fierceness,  resolution  in  obatinaey,  wisdom  in  cunning,  pa- 
tience in  sullennesa  and  despair. 

Men's  passions  operate  variously,  and  appear  in  different 
kinds  of  actiona,  according  aa  they  are  more  or  less  rectified 
and  swayed  by  reason.  "When  one  hears  of  negroes,  who, 
upon  the  death  of  their  masters,  or  upon  changing  their 
aervice,  hang  themaelves  upon  the  nest  tree,  aa  it  frequently 
happens  in  our  American  plantations,  who  can  forbear  ail- 
miring  their  fidelity,  though  it  expresses  itself  in  so  dread- 
ful a  manner  ?  What  might  not  that  savage  greatneas  of  soul, 
which  appears  in  these  poor  wretches,  on  many  occasions,  be 
raised  to,  were  it  rightly  cultivated  ?  And  what  colour  of 
excuse  can  there  be  for  the  contempt  with  which  we  treat 
this  part  of  our  species,  that  we  should  not  put  them  upon 
the  common  foot  of  humanity,  that  w^e  should  only  set  an  in- 
significant fine  upon  the  man  who  murders  thera ;  nay,  that 
we  should,  as  much  as  in  us  lies,  cut  them  off  from  the  pros- 
pect of  happinesa  in  another  world,  as  well  as  in  this,  and 
deny  them  that  whioh  we  look  upon  as  the  proper  means  for 
attaining  it  ? 

Since  I  am  engaged  on  this  subject,  I  cannot  forbear 
mentioning  a  story  which  I  have  lately  heard,  and  which  is 
so  well  attested,  that  I  have  no  manner  of  reason  to  suspect 
the  truth  of  it  i  I  may  call  it  a  kind  of  wild  tragedy  that 
passed  about  twelve  yeara  ago  at  St.  Christopher's,  one  of 
our  British  Leeward  lalanda.  The  negroes  who  were  con- 
cerned in  it  were  all  of  them  the  slavea  of  a  gentleman  who 
is  now  ia  England. 

This  gentleman,  among  his  negroes,  had  a  young  woman, 
who  waa  looked  upon  as  a  most  extraordinary  beauty  by 
those  of  her  own  complexion.    He  had  at  the  sune  time  two 


THi:   SPECTATOB.  87 

foung  fellowB,  who  were  likewise  negroes  and  slaves,  re- 

larkable  for  the  comeliness  of  their  persona,  and  for  the 

iendahip  which  they  bore  to  one  another.   It  unfortunately 

Bppened  that  both  of  them  fell  in  love  with  the  female  ne- 

7o  above-mentioned,  who  would  have  been  very  glad  to  have 

iken  either  of  them  for  her  husband,  provided  they  could 

—  between  themselves  which  should  be  the  man.  But  they 

both  BO  passionately  in  love  with  her,  that  neither  of 

them  could  think  of  giving  her  up  to  hia  rival ;  and  at  the 

tame  time  were  so  true  to  one  another,  that  neither  of  them 

would  think  of  gaining  her  without  his  friend's  consent. 

The  torments  of  these  two  lovers  were  the  discourse  of  the 

femily  to  which  they  belonged,  who  could  not  forbear  ob- 

•erving  the  strange  complication  of  passions  which  perplexed 

.the  hearts  of  the  poor  negroes,  that  often  dropped  eipres- 

noUH  of  the  uneasiness  they  underwent,  and  how  impossible 

it  was  for  either  of  them  ever  to  be  happy. 

After  a  long  struggle  between  love  and  friendship,  truth 
-and  jealousy,  they  one  day  took  a  walk  together  into  a  wood, 
«arrying  their  mistress  along  with  them ;  where,  after  ahund- 
^lamentations,  they  stabbed  her  to  the  heart,  of  which 
mediately  died.  A  slave,  who  was  at  his  work  not  far 
^om  the  piace  where  this  aatoniahing  piece  of  cruelty  was 
committed,  hearing  the  shrieks  of  the  dymg  person,  ran  to  see 
what  was  the  occasion  of  them.  He  there  discovered  the 
■woman  lying  dead  upon  the  ground,  with  the  two  negroes  on 
each  side  of  her  kissing  the  dead  corpse,  weeping  over  it,  and 
Ijeating  their  breasts  in  the  ntioost  agonies  of  grief  and 
despair.  He  immediately  ran  to  the  English  family  with  the 
Jiewa  of  what  he  had  seen ;  who,  upon  coming  to  the  place, 
«aw  the  woman  dead,  and  the  two  negroes  eipiring  by  her 
Kith  wounds  they  had  given  themaelvea. 

We  see  in  this  amazing  instance  of  barbarity,  what  strange 
disorders  are  bred  in  the  minds  of  those  men  whose  passions 
M  not  regulated  by  virtue,  and  disciplined  by  reason.  Though 
he  action  which  I  have  recited  is  in  itself  full  of  guilt  and 
(orror,  it  proceeded  from  a  temper  of  mind  which  might  have 
Ofoduced  very  noble  fruits,  had  it  been  formed  and  giJded 
<j  a  suitable  education. 
""-  -B,  therefore,  an  unspeakable  "blessing  to  be  bom  in  those 
of  the  world  where  wisdom  and  knowledge  flourish; 
Longh  it  must  be  confessed,  there  are,  even  in  tliese  parts, 


Beyeral  poor  imiiiBtrueted  persons,  wlio  are  but  little  abore 
tlie  iuhabitanta  of  those  uations  of  nhich  I  have  beeu  li^sre 
speaking ;  as  those  who  have  had  the  advantages  of  a  more 
liberal  education,  rise  above  one  another  by  several  different 
degrees  of  perfection.  For,  to  return  to  our  statue  in  the 
blocli  of  marble,  we  see  it  aometimea  only  begun  to  be  chipped, 
r^j^metimes  rough-hewn,  and  but  just  sketched  into  on  bumim 
figure ;  Bometimea  we  see  the  maa  appearing  distinctly  in  all 
his  limbs  and  features,  sometimes  we  find  the  figure  wrought 
up  to  a  great  elegancy,  but  seldom  meet  with  any  to  which 
the  baud  of  a  Phidias  or  a  Praiiteles  could  not  give  several 
nice  touches  and  fluiBhings. 

Discourses  of  morality,  and  reflections  upon  human  nature, 
are  the  beat  means  we  can  make  use  of  to  improve  our  rainde, 
and  gain  a  true  knowledge  of  ourselves,  and  eonaequently  to 
recover  our  souls  out  of  the  vice,  ignorance,  and  prejudice, 
which  naturally  cleave  to  them.  I  have  all  along  professed 
myself  in  this  paper  n  promoter  of  these  great  ends ;  and  I 
flatter  myself  that  I  do  trora  day  ffl  day  contribute  something 
to  the  polishing  of  men's  mmds ;  at  least  mj  design  ia 
laudable,  whatever  the  execution  may  be.  I  must  confess  I 
am  not  a  little  encouraged  in  it  by  many  letters  wiiich  I  re- 
ceive from  unknown  hands,  in  approbation  of  my  endeavours ; 
and  must  take  this  opportunity  of  returning  my  thanks  to 
those  who  write  them,  and  excusing  myself  tor  not  inserting 
several  of  them  in  my  papers,  which  I  am  sensible  would  be 
a  verv  great  ornament  to  them.  Should  I  publish  the  praises 
wbicQ  are  ao  well  penned,  they   would  do  honour  to  the 

fersons  who  write  them ;  but  my  pubhsbing  of  them  would, 
fear,  be  a  sufficient  instance  to  the  world,  that  I  did 
deserve  them. 

No.  219.    3ATUEDAT,  NOVEMBEE  10. 


Vix  ea  nosira  voco—  Ovid. 

TTTim-R  sro  but  few  men  who  are  not  amblrioua  of  distu^ 
guishing  themselves  in  the  nation  or  country  where  they  live, 
ftud  of  growing  considerable  among  those  with  whom  they 
converse.  There  is  a  kind  of  graudeur  and  respect,  which 
the  meanest  and  moat  insignificant  part  of  mankind  end* 
vour  to  procure  in  the  little  circle  of  their  friends  and 

quaintance.  The  poorest  mechanic,  nay,  the  man  who  lives 
Upon  common  alms,  gets  him  his  set  of  admirers,  and  delights 
in  that  superiority  ■which  he  enjoys  over  those  who  are  in 
some  respects  beneath  him.  Tbia  ambition,  which  is  natural 
to  the  soul  of  man,  miqht,  methinks,  receive  a  very  happy 
turn ;  and,  if  it  were  rightly  directed,  contribute  as  much  to 
a  person's  advantage,  as  it  generally  does  to  his  uneasineHa 
Kud  disquiet. 

I  shall  therefore  put  together  some  thoughts  on  this  sjib- 
ject,  which  I  have  not  met  with  in  other  writers  :  and  shall 
set  them  down  as  they  have  occurred  to  me,  without  being  at 
the  pains  to  connect  or  methodize  them. 

All  superiority  and  pre-eminence  that  one  man  can  have 
over  Miotner,  may  be  reduced  to  the  notion  of  quality,  which, 
considered  at  large,  is  either  that  of  fortune,  body,  or  mind. 
The  first  is  that  which  consists  in  birth,  title,  or  riches ;  and 
is  the  most  Ibreign  to  our  natures,  and  what  we  can  the  least 
call  our  own  of  any  of  the  three  kinds  of  qiiality.  In  relation 
to  the  body,  quality  arises  irom  health,  strength,  or  beauty ; 
"which  are  nearer  to  us,  and  more  a  part  of  ourselves,  than  the 
former.  Quality,  as  it  regards  the  mind,  has  its  rise  from 
knowledge  or  virtue  ;  and  is  that  which  is  more  essential  to 
us,  and  more  intimately  united  wit'h  us  than  either  of  the 
other  two. 

The  quality  of  fortune,  though  a.  man  has  less  reason  to 
value  himself  upon  it  than  on  that  of  the  body  or  mind,  ie 
however  the  kind  of  quaHty  which  makes  the  most  shining 
figure  in  the  eye  of  the  world. 

As  virtue  is  the  most  reasonable  and  genuine  source  of 
Jionoup,  we  generally  find  in  titles  an  intimation  of  some 
particular  merit  that  should  recommend  men  to  the  high 
stations  which  they  possess.  Holiness  is  ascribed  to  the 
pope ;  majesty  to  kings  ;  serenity  or  mildness  of  t-emper  to 
]^mces :  eicelience  or  perfection  to  ambassadors  ;  grace  to 
archbishops i  honour  to  peers;  worship  or  venerable  be- 
lumour  to  magistrates ;  reverence,  which  is  of  the  same  im- 
port as  the  former,  to  the  inferior  clergy. 

In  the  founders  of  great  families,  such  attributes  of  bon- 
lOur  are  generally  correspondent  with  the  virtues  of  that 
person  to  whom  they  are  applied  ;  but  in  the  deaceivdasSs. 
mey  are  too  often  t)'e  marks  ratWer  ai.  ^aa.&.e\H  'Ooasi  v4 


merit.    Tlie  stamp  and  denominatioa  HtiU  continues,  but  tluj 
iDtriuHic  value  ia  frequently  lost. 

The  death-bed  showa  the  emptuiess  tif  titles  in  a  t_ 
light.  A  poor  dispirited  aiimer  uea  trembling  under  the  a 
prehenaiouB  of  the  atate  he  ia  entering  on ;  and  is  aaked  brj 
grave  attendant,  how  his  Holiueas  does  ?  Another  hears  hua'l 
self  addressed  to  under  the  title  of  Highness  or  EKceUency, 
who  lie  under  such  mean  eircumatancea  of  mortality  as  are 
the  diagracB  of  human  nature.  Titles  at  such  a  time  look 
ratber  like  insidts  and  mockery  than  respect. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  honours  are  in  this  world  under  no  re- 
gulation ;  true  quality  is  neglected,  virtue  ia  oppreased,  and 
vice  triumphant.  The  last  day  will  rectify  this  disorder,  and 
asaign  to  every  one  a  station  suitable  to  the  dignity  of  hia 
character ;  ranta  will  be  then  adjusted,  and  precedency  aet 

Methinks  we  should  have  an  ambition,  if  not  to  advance 
ourselves  in  another  world,  at  least  to  presen'e  our  post  in 
it,  and  outshine  our  inferiors  in  virtue  here,  that  they  may 
not  be  put  above  ua  in  a  atate  which  ia  to  aettle  the  distinc- 
tion for  eternity. 

Men  in  Scripture  are  called  "  strangers  and  sojoumera 
upon  earth,"  and  life  a  "pilgrimage."  Several  heathen  as 
well  aa  Christian  authors,  under  the  same  kind  of  metaphor, 
bave  represented  the  world  as  an  inn,  which  was  only  de- 
signed  to  furnish  us  with  accommodations  in  this  our  paa- 
sage.  It  is,  therefore,  very  absurd  to  think  of  setting  up  our 
rest  before  we  come  to  our  journey's  end,  and  not  rather  to 
take  care  of  the  reception  we  shall  there  meet  with,  than  to 
fix  our  thoughts  on  tne  little  conveniencies  and  advantages 
which  we  enjoy  one  above  another  in  the  way  to  it. 

Epictetus  makes  use  of  another  kind  of  allusion,  which  is 
verv  beautiful,  and  wonderfully  proper  to  incline  ua  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  post  in  which  Providence  has  placed  lis. 
'■  "We  are  here  (saya  he)  aa  in  a  theatre,  where  every  one  baa 
a  part  allotted  to  him.  The  great  duty  which  lies  upon  a 
man  is,  to  act  his  part  in  perfection.  We  may,  indeed,  say 
that  our  part  does  not  suit  us,  and  that  we  could  »ct  an- 
other  better.  But  this  (says  the  philosopher)  is  not  oui 
business.  All  that  we  are  concerned  in  is,  to  excel  in  U:t 
part  which  is  given  u»      If  it  be  an  improper  one,  the  fi 

Is  not  in  ua,  tut  in  Him  wbo  Las  '.cast'  our  seTeral  parts, 
sod  ia  the  great  dispuser  of  the  draitia." 

The  part  which  was  acted  hy  this  phjioaopher  himself  was 
but  a  very  indifferent  one,  for  he  liv^dwd  died  a  slave.  His 
motive  to  contentment  in  this  particoV .  receives  a  very- 
great  enforcement  from  the  ahove-mentioced  consideration, 
if  we  rememher  that  our  parts  iu  the  o^htr.  world  will  be 
"  new  cast,"  and  that  maukind  will  be  thepe/jaij^d  in  dif- 
ferent stations  of  superiority  and  pre-eminense^in  propor- 
tion as  they  have  here  escelled  one  another  la  virtue,  and 
Erformed,  in  their  several  posts  of  life,  the  duties  which  be- 
ig  to  them.  ■■  ,.  ,._ 

There  are  many  beautiful  passages  in  the  little  apocrjphal 
boob,  entitled  "  The  Wisdom  of  Solomon,"  to  set  fortp.-?^ 
Tonity  of  honour,  and  the  like  temporal  blessings  which-'arp. . 
in  Eo  great  repute  among  men,  and  to  comfort  those  wto 
have  not  the  possessiou  of  them.  It  represents  in  very  warm -'- 
and  noble  terms  this  advancement  of  a  good  mB.ii  in.  the  other 
world,  and  the  great  surprise  which  it  will  produce  among 
those  who  are  his  superiors  in  this.  "  Then  shall  the  right- 
eous man  stand  in  great  boldness  before  the  face  of  sucii  as 
have  afflicted  him,  and  made  no  account  of  his  labours. 
When  they  see  it,  they  shall  be  troubled  with  terrible  fear, 
and  shall  be  amazed  at  the  strangeness  of  his  salvation,  so 
far  beyond  all  that  they  looked  for.  And  they,  repenting 
and  groaning  for  anguish  of  spirit,  shall  say  within  them- 
selves. This  was  he  whom  we  had  some  time  in  derision,  and  a 
proverb  of  reproach.  We  fools  accounted  his  life  madness, 
and  his  end  to  be  without  honour.  How  is  he  numbered 
among  the  children  of  God,  and  his  lot  ia  among  the  saints." 

If  the  reader  would  see  the  description  of  a  life  that  ia 
passed  away  in  vaiiity,  and  among  the  shadows  of  pomp  and 
greatness,  he  may  see  it  very  finely  drawn  in  the  same  place. 
In  the  mean  time,  since  it  is  necessary  in  the  present  consti- 
tution of  things,  that  order  and  distinction  should  be  kept  up 
in  the  world,  we  should  be  happy,  if  those  who  enjoy  the 
upper  stations  in  it,  would  endeavour  to  surpass  others  in 
virtue  as  much  as  iu  rank,  and,  by  their  humanity  and  con- 
descension, make  their  superiority  easyand  acceptable  to  those 
who  are  beneath  them  ;  and  if,  on  tlie  contrary,  those  who  arc 
in  the  meaner  posts  of  life,  would  consider  how  they  may 
.lietter  their  condition  hereai^r,  and,  by  Bi  just  deference  and^ 

ADDJB9''  f  WOBKS. 

Eubmission  to  their  Buj^riflfa,  make  fhem  bappy  ia  tboi 
blessings  with  wbicb_. ^tfridence  baa  tbouglit  fit  to  i' 
tinguiab  them.  .,  ■, "  ' 

No.  2?t/'*nJESDAT,  NOTEMBEE  13. 

■.'-•■!''  — Abovo 

.*•.  '.        UsquQ  ad  mail, —  Hor. 

WHEif  I-have  fimBhed  any  of  my  Bpeculations,  it  ia 
method'.Ja  consider  which  of  the  ancient  authors  ban 
touvked  ypon  the  subject  that  I  treat  of.  By  this  means  J 
niefel'^'rth  some  celebrated  thought  upon  it,  or  a  thought  tri, 

S'frdwn  expressed  in  better  worM,  or  some  Bimilitude  for  theH 
natration  of  my  subject.    This  ia  what  gives  birth  to  the 
■-alfltto  of  a  specmation,  which  I  rather  choose  to  take  out  of 
•.,the  poets  than  tbe  prose  writers,  as  the  former  generally  give 
■   a  finer  turn  to  a  thought  than  the  latter,  and,  by  conehingit 
in  few  words,  and  harmonious  numbers,  make  it  more  port- 
able to  the  memory. 

My  reader  is  therefore  sure  to  meet  with  at  least  one  good 
line  m  every  paper,  and  very  often  finds  his  imagination  en- 
tertained by  a  bint  that  awakens  in  his  memory  some  beau- 
tiful passage  of  a  classic  author. 

It  was  a  saying  of  an  ancient  philosopher,  which  I  find 
some  of  our  writers  have  ascribed  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  who 
perhaps  might  have  taken  occasion  to  repeat  it,  "  That  a 
good  &ce  ia  a  letter  of  recommendation."  It  naturally  makes 
the  beholders  inquisitive  into  the  person  who  is  the  owner  of 
it,  and  generally  prepOBseaaes  them  in  his  favour.  A  hand- 
some motto  has  the  same  effect.  Besides  that,  it  always  gives 
a  supernumerary  beauty  to  a  paper,  and  is  sometimes  in  a 
raajiner  necessary  when  the  writer  is  engaged  in  what  may 
appear  a  paradox  to  vulgar  minds,  as  it  shows  that  he  is  sup- 
ported by  good  autborities,  and  is  not  singular  in  bis  opinion. 
I  must  confess  the  motto  is  of  little  use  to  an  unlearned 
reader,  for  which  reason  I  consider  it  only  as  "  a  word  to  the 
wise."  But  as  for  my  unlearned  friends,  if  they  cannot 
relish  the  motto,  I  take  care  to  make  provision  for  them  in 
the  body  of  my  paper.  If  they  do  not  understand  the  sign 
that  is  nung  out,  they  know  very  well  by  it,  that  they  may  ■ 
meet  with  entertainment  in  the  bouse ;  and  I  think  I  \    " 

never  better  pleased  tLan  witli  a  plain  man's  compliment, 
who,  upon  hia  friend's  telling  him  that  he  would  like  the 
Spectator  much  better  if  he  iinderatood  the  motto,  replied, 
"  Good  wine  needs  no  huah." 

I  have  heard  of  a  couple  of  preachers  in  a  country  town, 
■who  endeavoured  which  ahoultt  outshine  one  another,  and 
draw  together  the  greatest  congregation.  One  of  them  be- 
ing well  versed  in  the  fathers,  used  to  quote  every  now  and 
then  a  Latin  eentence  to  his  illiterate  hearers,  who  it  seems 
found  themselves  so  edified  by  it,  that  they  flocked  in  greater 
numbers  to  this  learned  man  than  to  his  rival.  The  other 
finding  his  congregation  mouldering  every  Sunday,  and  hear- 
ing at  length  what  was  the  occasion  of  it,  resolved  to  give  hia 
parish  a  httle  Latin  in  his  turn ;  but  being  unacquainted 
with  any  of  the  fathers,  he  digested  into  hia  aermons  the 
whole  book  of  Qua  Genus,  adding,  however,  such  erplica- 
tions  to  it  aa  he  thought  might  be  for  the  benefit  of  his 

rple,  He  afterwards  entered  upon  As  in  prasenti,  which 
converted  in  the  same  manner  to  the  use  of  his  parish* 
ifHiers.  This  in  a  very  little  time  thickened  hia  audience, 
filled  his  church,  and  routed  his  antagonist. 

The  natm^  love  to  Latin,  which  is  so  prevalent  in  our 
common  people,  makes  me  think  that  my  speculatious  fare 
never  the  worse  among  them  for  that  little  scrap  which  ap- 
pears at  the  head  of  them ;  and  what  the  more  encourages 
me  in  the  tise  of  quotations  in  an  unknown  tongue,  is,  that  I 
hear  the  ladies,  whose  approbation  I  value  more  than  that  of 
the  whole  learned  world,  declare  themselves  in  a  more  parti- 
eaiar  manner  pleased  with  my  Greek  mottoes. 

Designing  this  day's  work  for  a  dissertation  upon  the  two 
eitreraities  of  my  paper,  and  having  already  despatched  my 
motto,  I  shall,  in  the  next  place,  discourse  upon  those  single 
capital  letters  which  are  placed  at  the  end  of  it,  and  whieh 
have  afforded  great  matter  of  speculation  to  the  curious. 
I  have  heard  various  conjectures  upon  this  subject.  Some 
tell  UB,  that  C  is  the  mark  of  those  papers  that  are  written 
by  the  Clergj-man,  though  others  ascribe  them  to  the  Club 
in  general.  That  the  papers  marked  with  E,  were  written 
by  my  friend  Sir  Eoger.  That  L  signifies  the  Lawyer,  whom 
I  have  described  in  my  Speculation ;  and  that  T  stands  for 
the  Trader  or  Merchant :  but  the  letter  X,  which  is  placed 
■t  ^e  end  of  some  few  of  my  papers,  ia  that  whidi.  V 

puzzled  the  whole  town,  aa  they  cannot  think  of  a 
which  begins  with  that  letter,  eicept  Senophon  and  Xer      ,  _ 
who  can  neither  of  them  be  supposed  to  have  had  any  hnnd 
in  these  speculationB, 

In  answer  to  these  inquisitive  gentlemen,  who  have  many 
of  them  made  inquiriea  of  me  by  letter,  I  must  tell  them  the 
reply  of  an  ancient  philosopher,  who  cairied  something  hid- 
den under  hia  cloak.  A  certain  acquaintance  deairmg  him  to 
let  him  know  what  it  waa  ha  covered  so  carefully,  "  I  cover 
it  (says  he)  on  nurpoae  that  you  should  not  know."  I  havo,^ 
mode  use  of  tnese  obscure  marks  for  the  same  purposq 
They  are,  perhapa,  httle  amulets  or  charms  to  preserve  thd 
paper  Bgainst  the  fa^scinatlon  or  malice  of  evil  eyes ;  fqg 
which  reason  I  would  not  have  my  reader  surprised,  if  hi 
^ter  ho  aees  any  of  my  papers  marked  with  a  Q,  a  Z,  a 
an  Ac,  or  with  the  word  Abracadabra. 

I  shall,  however,  so  far  explain  myself  to  the  reader,  s 
let  him  know  that  the  letters  C,  L,  and  X,  are  cahaliatical, 
and  carry  more  in  them  than  it  is  proper  for  the  world  to  be 
acquainted  with.  Those  who  are  versed  in  the  philosophy  of 
Pythagoras,  and  swear  by  the  Tetracthtya,  that  is,  the  num- 
ber four,  will  know  very  well  that  the  number  ten,  which  is 
signified  by  the  letter  X,  (aud  which  has  so  much  perplexed 
the  town,)  has  in  it  majiy  particular  powers ;  that  it  is  caUed 
by  Platonic  writers  the  complete  number ;  that  one,  two, 
three,  and  four,  put  together,  make  up  the  number  ten ;  and 
that  ten  is  all.  But  these  are  not  mysteries  for  ordinary 
readers  to  he  let  into,  A  man  must  have  spent  many  yeftrs 
in  hard  study  before  he  eau  arrive  at  the  knowledge  of  them. 

We  had  a  rabbinical  divine  in  England,  who  was  chaplain 
to  the  Earl  of  Esses  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  that  had  an 
admirable  head  for  secrets  of  this  nature.     Upon  his  taking 
the  doctor  of  divinity's  degree,  he  preached  before  the  uni-  . 
veraity  of  Cambridge,  upon  the  first  verse  of  the  first  chaptw  J 
of  the  first  book  of  Clffoniclea,  in  which  (says  he)  you  will:! 
see  the  three  following  words,  T 

Adam,  Sheth,  Enosh.  ' 

He  divided  this  short  text  into  many  parts,  and  discovering 
several  mysteries  in  ea<;h  word,  made  a  most  learned  ana 
elaborate  discourse.  The  name  of  this  profound  preacher 
was  Doctor  Alabaster,  of  whom  the  reader  may  find  a  mop 
partisalar  account  in  Doctor  FuUer'a  book  of  English  "Wor 

fiiea.     Tliia  instanee  will,  I  tope,  coavinoe  mv  readers,  that 
'    re  may  be  a  great  deal  of  fine  writing  in  tne  capital  let- 
3  which  bring  up  the  rear  of  my  paper,  and  give  them 
le  satisfaction  in  that  particular.     But  as  for  the  full  ei- 
dication  of  these  matters,  I  must  refer  them  to  tirae,  which 
fl  all  things. 

No.  223.     THUESDAT,  NOVESIBER  15. 

"Wheu  I  reflect  upon  the  various  fate  of  those  multitudes 
bf  ancient  writers  who  flourished  in  Greece  and  Italy,  I  con- 
time  as  an  immense  ocean,  in  which  many  noble  authorB 
entirely  swallowed  up,  many  very  much  shattered  and 
"~!d,  some  quite  disjomted  and  broken  into  pieces,  while 
[ome  nave  wholly  escaped  the  common  wreck ;  but  the  num- 
jer  of  the  last  is  very  small. 

Apparent  ran  nanlas  in  giu^ta  vasto. 
Among  the  mutilated  poets  of  antiquity,  there  is  none 
rhoee  fragments  are  so  heautiiiil  as  those  of  Sappho.  They 
I  UB  a  taste  of  her  way  of  writing,  which  is  perfectly  con- 
lable  with  that  extraordinary  character  we  find  of  her,  in 
a  remarks  of  those  great  critica  who  were  conversaut  with 
^^  .T  works  when  they  were  entire.  One  may  see  by  what  is 
|ikE%  of  them,  that  she  followed  nature  in  all  her  thoughts, 
irithout  descending  to  those  little  points,  conceits,  and  turna 
f  wit,  with  which  manj  of  our  modem  lyrics  are  so  miserably 
nfeeted.  Her  soul  seems  to  have  been  made  up  of  love  and 
boetry:  she  felt  the  passion  in  all  its  warmth,  and  described 
[t  in  all  its  symptoms.  She  is  called  by  ancient  authors  the 
5^th  Muse  ;  and  by  Plutarch  is  compared  to  CacuB,  the  son 
F  Vulcan,  who  breathed  out  nothing  but  flame.  I  do  not 
now  hj  the  character  that  is  given  of  her  works,  whether  it 
f»  not  for  the  benefit  of  mankind  that  they  are  lost.  They 
Wer&  filled  with  such  bewitching  tenderness  and  rapture,  that 
%  might  have  been  dangerous  to  have  given  them  a  rending. 
An  inconstant  lover,  called  Phaon,  occasioned  great  calami- 
^  to  this  poetical  lady.  She  fell  desperately  in  love  witU 
rim,  and  took  a  voyage  iuto  Sicily,  in  pursuit  of  him,  he  hfty- 

ADDIBOS  8  irOBE3, 

ing  withdrawii  himeelf  thither  on.  purpose  to  avoid  her. 
waa  in  that  ieland,  and  on  this  occasion,  she  ia  supposed  ti_  , 
have  made  the  Hymn  to  Venus,  with  a  traualotion  of  which 
I  ahall  present  my  reader.  Her  hymn  was  ineffectual  for 
tiie  procuring  that  happiness  which  she  prayed  for  in  it. 
Phaon  was  stfll  obdurate,  and  Sappho  so  transported  with 
the  violence  of  her  passion,  that  she  was  resolved  to  get  rid 
of  it  at  any  price. 

There  was  a  promontory  in  Acamania  called  Leucate,  on 
the  top  of  which  was  a  little  temple  dedicated  to  Apollo,  In 
this  temple  it  waa  usu^  for  despairing  lovers  to  make  their 
vows  in  secret,  and  afterwords  to  fling  themselves  from  the 
top  of  the  precipice  into  the  sea,  where  they  were  sometimes 
taaen  up  aUve.  Tliia  place  was  therefore  called  The  Lover's 
Leap;  and  whether  or  no  the  fright  they  had  been  in,  or  the 
resolution  that  could  push  them  to  so  dreadful  a  remedy, 
or  the  bruises  which  they  often  received  in  their  fall,  ban- 
ished all  the  tender  sentiments  of  love,  and  gave  their  spirits 
another  turn;  those  who  had  taken  this  leap  were  observed 
never  to  relapse  into  that  passion.  Sappho  tried  the  cure, 
but  perished  in  the  experiment. 

After  having  given  this  short  accoimt  of  Sappho  so  far  as 
it  regards  the  following  Ode,  I  shall  subjoin  tne  translation 
of  it  as  it  waa  sent  me  by  a  friend,'  whose  admirable  pastorals 
and  winter-piece  have  been  already  ao  well  received.  The 
reader  will  find  in  it  that  pathetic  simplicity  which  is  so  pe- 
culiar to  him,  and  so  suitable  to  the  Ode  he  has  here  trans- 
lated. This  Ode  in  the  Greek  (besides  those  beauties  ob- 
served by  Madame  Dacier)  has  several  harmonious  turns  in 
the  words,  which  are  not  lost  in  the  English.  I  must  fur- 
ther add,  that  the  translation  has  preserved  every  image  and 
sentiment  of  Sappho,  notwithstanding  it  has  all  the  ease  and 
spirit  of  an  original.  In  a  word,  if  the  ladies  have  a  mind 
to  know  the  manner  of  writing  practised  by  the  so  much 

'  Mr.  Ambrose  Philips  ;  who  vos  a  friend  of  out  author,  but  btin^  a 
^reat  party-niaa,  drew  upon  himself  much  envy,  and,  of  course,  the  ridi- 
cule of  the  wits  ;  such  of  them,  I  meBO,  as  lived  in  connexEoiu  opposite 
to  his.  As  a  poet,  however,  he  had  real  merit,  which  consisted  in  a  cer- 
tain natural  turn  of  aenliment  and  Expression,  called  hy  his  friends,  aim- 
plicity ;  and  by  Mh  enemies,  we  may  be  sure,  insipidity.  The  worst  part 
of  his  character  is  liat  ha  was  generally  thought  (wid  I  helicve  on  good 

Ciunda)  to  have  done  Mr.  Pope  ill  offices  with  Mr.  Addison  ;  for  which 
is  trMted  by  that  poet,  on  many  oi       ' 


Jebrated  Sappho,  they  may  here  aee  it  in  its  genuine  and 
1  beauty,  without  any  foreign  or  affected  orname&ts. 


O  Venus,  beauty  of  ihe  skies, 
To  whom  a  Ihousand  temples  rise, 
Gaily  falae  in  gentle  smiles. 
Full  of  love-perplexing  wilea  ; 
O  goddess ;  from  my  heart  remDve 
The  wastii^  cares  and  paiiis  of  lore 


If  ever  thou  hast  kindly  beard 
A  »ong  in  soft  distress  preferred, 
Propitious  to  my  tuneftil  tow, 

0  gentle  goddess,  hear  me  now. 
Descend,  thou  bright,  immortal  guest, 
In  all  thy  radiant  charms  confest. 

Thoa  once  didat  leaTe  Almighty  JoTB, 
And  all  the  golden  roofs  above  ; 
Tlie  car  thy  wanton  sparrows  drew, 
Hovering  in  air  Ihey  li^tly  flew  ; 
As  to  my  bower  they  winged  their  way  ; 

1  saw  their  quivering  pinions  play. 

The  birds  dismi^t  (while  you  remain) 
Bore  back  their  empty  car  again : 
Then  yuu,  wilh  looks  divinely  mild, 
In  every  heavenly  feature  smiled. 
And  asked  what  new  complaints  I  mad^ 
And  why  I  called  you  lo  my  aid  1 

What  phrensy  in  my  bosom  raged. 
And  by  what  cure  to  be  assuaged  7 
What  geutle  youth  1  would  allure, 
Whom  in  my  artful  loila  secure  ! 
Who  does  thy  tender  heart  subdue, 
Tell  mc,  my  Sappho,  tell  me  who  7 

Thoogh  now  he  shuns  thy  longing  arms, 
He  soon  shall  court  thy  alighted  charms; 
Though  now  Ihy  offerings  he  despise, 
He  soon  to  thee  shall  sacrifice  ; 
Though  now  he  &eeze,  he  soon  shall  bm. 
And  M  tby  victim  in  bis  turn. 


CGlealial  TiaiUnt,  once  more 
Thy  needful  presence  I  implore  ! 
In  pity  come  and  ease  my  grief, 
Bring  my  distempered  Eoul  relief, 
Favour  thy  suppliant's  hidden  iirea. 
And  give  me  all  my  heart  desires. 

Madame  Dacier  obaervea  tiiera  is  aomething  very  pretty 
in  that  cireumatance  of  this  Ode,  wherein  Venus  is  described 
as  sending  away  her  chariot  upon  her  arrival  at  Bappho'a 
lodgings,  to  deuote  that  it  was  not  a  short,  transient  visit 
which  ahe  intended  to  make  her.  Thia  Ode  was  preserved  by 
an  eminent  Greek  critic,  who  inserted  it  entire  in  his  worka, 
as  a  pattern  of  perfection  in  the  structure  of  it. 

Longinus  has  quoted  another  Ode  of  thia  great  poetess, 
which  ia  likewiae  admirable  in  its  kind,  and  has  been  trans- 
lated by  the  aame  hand  with  the  foregoing  one.  I  shall 
oblige  my  reader  with  it  iu  another  paper.  In  the  mean 
while,  I  cannot  but  wonder  that  these  two  finished  pieces 
have  never  been  attempted  before  by  any  of  our  countrymen. 
But  the  truth  of  it  is,  the  compositions  of  the  ancients,  which 
have  not  in  them  any  of  those  unnatural  witticisms  that  are 
the  delight  of  ordinary  readers,  are  extremely  difficult  to 
render  into  another  tongue,  so  as  the  beauties  of  the  ori- 
ginal may  not  appear  weak  and  faded  in  traaalation. 


it  prudent  ia— 

I  HAVE  often  thought  if  the  minds  of  men  were  laid  oper 
we  should  see  but  little  difference  between  that  of  the  wi 
cian  and  that  of  the  fool.     There  are  infinite  reveries,  nu 
herless  extravagances,  and  a  perpetual  trata  of  vanities,  wl 
paaa  through  both.     The  great  difference  is,  that  the  f 
Knows  how  to  pick  and  cull  his  thoughts  for  conversat' 
by  auppreaaiag  some  and  communicating  othera;  wfae 
the  otner  leta  them  aU  indifierently  fly  out  in  words, 
^ort  of  discretion,  however,  has  no  place  in  private  cc 
HMtion  between  intimate  friends.     On  sucU  sccaaion 

wieeat  men  very  often  talk  like  llie  ■weakeat;  for  iadee'l  the 
talkme  with  a  friend  is  nothing  else  hut  "  thinking  aloud." 

TulJy  has,  therefore,  very  justly  etpoaed  the  precept  de- 
livered hy  some  ancient  writera,  that  a  man  ehonld  live  with 
his  enemy  in  such  a  manner  as  might  leave  him  room  to  be- 
come his  friend ;  and  with  hia  friend  in  auch  a  manner  that, 
if  he  became  his  enemy,  it  should  not  he  in  his  power  to  hurt 
iim.  The  firat  part  of  this  rule,  which  regards  our  behaviour 
towarda  an  enemy,  is  indeed  very  reaaouable,  aa  well  aa  very 
prudential;  but  the  latter  part  of  it,  which  regards  our  be- 
iaviour  towarda  a  friend,  aavonrs  more  of  cunning  than  of 
discretion,  and  would  cut  a  man  off  from  the  greatest  plea- 
Bures  of  life,  which  are  the  freedoms  of  converaation  with  a 
^OBOm  friend,  Beaidea  that,  when  a  friend  ia  turned  into  an 
enemy,  and  (as  the  son  of  Siraeh  calls  him)  a  bewrayer  ol 
Becreta,  the  world  ia  just  enough  to  accuse  the  perfidioi 
neas  of  the  friend,  rather  than  the  indiscretion  of  the  p 
son  who  confided  in  hira. 

Discretion  does  not  only  show  itaelf  in  worda,  but  in 
the  circumatances  of  action;  and  ia  like  an  under-agent 
Providence,  to  guide  and  direct  ua  ia  the  ordinary  concerns 
of  life. 

There  are  many  more  shining  qualities  in  the  mind  of 
man,  but  there  is  none  ao  useful  aa  discretion ;  it  is  this,  in- 
deed, which  gives  a  value  to  all  the  rest,  which  aeta  them  at 
Work  in  their  proper  times  and  places,  and  turns  them  tc 
the  advantage  of  the  peraon  who  ia  poasessed  of  them.    With- 

■  out  it,  learning  is  pedantry,  and  wit  impertinence ;  virtue  it- 
self looks  like  weakness;  the  beat  parts  only  qualify  a  man  to 
be  more  sprightly  in  errors,  and  active  to  hie  own  prejudice. 

Nor  does  discretion  only  make  a  man  the  master  of  hia 
own  parts,  but  of  other  men's.  The  discreet  man  finds  out 
the  talents  of  those  he  converaes  with,  and  knowa  how  to 
apply  them  to  proper  uacs.  Accordingly,  if  we  look  into 
particular  communities  and  divisions  of  men,  we  may  observe 
that  it  is  the  discreet  man,  not  the  witty,  nor  the  learned, 
nor  the  brave,  who  guides  the  conversation,  and  gives  mea- 
sures to  the  society,     A  man  with  great  talents,  but  void  of 

■  discretion,  is  like  Polyphemus  in  the  fable,  strong  and  blind, 
'  endued  with  an  irresistible  force,  which  for  want  of  sight  ia 

itf  no  use  to  him. 

Though  a  man  has  all  other  perfections,  and  wonts  discre- 

tinn,  he  will  be  of  no  great  consequence  in  the  world :  but 
if  he  baa  this  single  talent  in  perfection,  and  but  a  com- 
mon share  of  others,  he  ma?  do  what  he  pleasea  in  his  station 
of  life. 

At  the  same  time  that  I  think  discretion  the  moat  useful 
talent  a  man  can  be  master  of,  I  look  upon  cunning  to  be 
the  accompliehment  of  little,  mean,  ungenerous  miuda.  Dis- 
cretion pointa  out  the  noblest  ends  to  us,  and  puraucs  the 
moat  proper  and  laudable  methods  of  attaining  them  r  cun- 
ning has  only  private,  aelfish  aims,  and  sticaa  at  nothing 
which  may  make  them  succeed.  IHscretion  has  large  and 
extended  views,  and,  lite  a  well-fonned  eye,  comnianda  a 
whole  horizon :  cunning  is  a  kind  of  ahort-aightedneas,  that 
discoTers  the  minutest  objects  which  are  near  at  hand,  but 
is  not  able  to  discern  things  at  a  distance.  Diacretion,  tha 
more  it  is  diacovered,  givea  a  greater  authority  to  the  peraon 
who  possesses  it:  cunning,  when  it  is  once  detected,  loses 
its  force,  and  makes  a  man  incapable  of  bringing  about  even 
those  events  which  he  might  have  done  had  he  passed  only 
for  a  plain  man.  Discretion  is  the  perfection  of  reason,  and 
a  guide  to  us  in  all  the  duties  of  lite  ;  cunning  ia  a  kind  of 
instinct,  that  only  looks  oiit  after  our  immediate  interest 
and  welfare.  Discretion  is  only  found  in  men  of  strong 
sense  and  good  understandings ;  cunning  is  often  to  be  met 
with  in  brutes  themselves,  and  in  persons  who  are  but  the 
feweat  removes  from  them.  In  short,  running  ia  only  the 
mimic  of  discretion,  and  may  pass  upon  weak  men  in  the 
same  manner  as  vivacity  ia  often  mistaken  for  wit,  and  gravity 
for  wisdom. 

The  cast  of  mind  which  is  natural  to  a  discreet  man,  makes 
him  look  forward  into  futurity,  and  consider  what  will  be  his 
condition  millions  of  ages  hence,  as  well  as  what  it  is  at  pre- 
sent. He  knows  that  the  misery  or  happiness  which  are  re- 
served for  him  in  another  world,  lose  nothing  of  their  reality 
by  being  placed  at  so  great  a  distance  from  him.  The  ob- 
jects do  not  appear  little  to  him  because  they  are  remote. 
He  considers  that  those  pleasures  and  pains  wMch  lie  hid  in 
eternity,  approach  nearer  to  him  every  moment,  and  will  be 
present  with  him  in  their  full  weight  and  measure,  as  much 
as  those  pains  and  pleasures  which  he  feels  at  tbia  very  in- 
stant. For  this  reason  he  is  careful  to  secure  to  hiiasolf 
that  which  is  the  proper  happiness  of  his  nature,  and  the 



ultimate  design  of  hie  Ijeing,  He  comes  his  thoughts  to  the 
nd  of  every  action,  and  considers  the  most  distant  oa  well 
^^  the  moHt  immediate  effects  of  it.  He  supersedea  every 
little  prospect  of  eain  and  advantage  which  onera  itself  here, 
Sf  lie  does  not  find  it  conBiatont  with  liis  views  of  an  here- 
in a  word,  his  hopes  are  full  of  immortality,  hia 
■cliemes  are  large  and  glorious,  and  his  conduct  suitable  to 
one  who  knows  his  true  interest,  and  how  to  puTHue  it  ty 
proper  methods. 

I  have,  in  this  essay  upon  discretion,  considered  it  both  as 
m  aceomplishment  and  as  a  virtue,  and  have  therefore  de- 
tcribed  it  m  its  full  extent ;  not  only  as  it  ja  conversant  abont 
worldly  affairs,  but  as  it  regards  our  whole  existence ;  not 
only  as  it  is  the  guide  of  a  mortal  creature,  but  as  it  is  in 
psneral  the  director  of  a  reasonable  being.  It  is  in  this  light 
fliat  discretion  is  represented  by  the  wise  man,  who  some- 
fonea  mentions  it  under  the  came  of  discretion,  and  some- 
timea  under  that  of  wisdom.  It  is  indeed  (as  described  in 
the  latter  part  of  tliis  paper^  the  greatest  wisdom,  but  at  the 
same  time  in  the  power  oi  every  one  to  attain.  Its  advan- 
tages are  iniimte,  but  its  acquisition  easy ;  or,  to  speak  of  - 
Jier  in  the  words  of  the  apocrypbol  writer  whom  I  quoted  in 
my  last  Saturday's  paper,  "  Wisdom  is  glorious,  and  never 
&aetli  away,  yet  she  is  easily  seen  of  them  that  love  her,  and 
Ebund  of  such  as  seek  her.  She  preventeth  them  that  desire 
Jier,  in  making  herself  known  unto  them.  He  that  seeketh 
her  early,  shall  have  no  great  travels :  for  he  shall  find  her 
ritting  at  his  doora.  To  think,  therefore,  upon  her  is  per- 
Cection  of  wisdom,  and  whoso  watcheth  for  her  shall  quickly 
be  without  care.  For  she  goeth  about  seeking  such  as  are 
worthy  of  her,  showeth  herself  lavourably  unto  them  in  the 
Vaya,  and  meeteth  them  in  every  thought." 

ITo.  227.    TUESDAY,  SOVEMEES  20. 

■Q  ^«  iyui,  Ti  iriflw ;  rf  d  Siaaoos }  oliv  viraiioint ; 
Tdv  ^airav  aroSie  (I'c  irmiara  rijva  BAtS/mi 

KtJEo  III)  Vofldvw,  ri  yi  fi&i/  Tiiv  idv  Tirinrai.     TuBOC. 

Ijr  my  last  Thursday's  paper  I  made  mention  of  a  place 
;fj:ed  the  Lover's  Leap,  which  I  find  has  raised  a  great 

curiosity  among  several  of  my  correspondents.  1  tiierc  to! 
them  that  this  leap  was  used  to  he  taken  from  a  promontor 
of  Leucaa.  Thia  Leucaa  was  formerly  a  part  of  Acamanii 
being  joined  to  it  hy  a  narrow  neek  of  land,  which  the  M 
has  by  length  of  time  overflowed  and  waahed  away;  so  thj 
nt  present  Leucas  is  divided  from  the  continent,  and  ia' 
little  island  in  the  Ionian  Sea,  The  promontory  of  thi 
island,  from  whence  the  lover  took  his  leap,  was  formerl 
called  Leucate.  If  the  reader  has  a  mind  to  know  both  th 
island  and  the  promontory  hy  their  modem  titles,  he  wiJ 
find  in  his  map  the  ancient  island  of  Leucas  under  the  nam 
of  St.  Mauro,  and  the  ancient  promontory  of  Leucate  undft 
the  name  of  The  Cape  of  St.  Mauro.  ] 

Since  I  am  engaged  thus  far  in  antiquity,  I  must  observe 
that  Theocritus,  in  the  motto  prefixed  to  my  paper,  de 
scribes  one  of  the  despairing  shepherds  addressing  nimself  ti 
hia  mistress  after  the  following  manner:  "Alas!  what  wil 
become  of  me  P  wretch  that  I  am !  will  you  not  hear  me  P  ] 
will  throw  off  my  clothes,  and  take  a  leap  into  that  part  o 
the  sea  which  is  so  much  frequented  by  Olphis  the  fisherman 
And  though  I  should  escape  with  my  lifu,  I  know  you  wil 
be  pleased  with  it."  I  shall  leave  it  with  the  critics  to  deter 
mine  whether  the  place,  which  this  shepherd  so  particularlj 
points  out,  was  not  the  above-mentioned  Leucate,  or  at  leaal 
some  lover's  leap,  which  was  supposed  to  have  had  the  samt 
effect;  I  cannot  believe,  as  all  the  interpreters  do,  that  thf 
shepherd  means  nothing  further  here  than  that  he  would 
drown  himself,  since  he  represents  the  issue  of  his  leap  as 
doubtful,  by  ttdding.that  if  he  should  escape  with  his  life,  he 
knows  his  mistress  would  be  pleased  with  it ;  which  is  accord- 
ing to  our  interpretation,  that  she  would  rejoice  any  way  to 
get  rid  of  a  lover  who  was  so  troublesome  to  her. 

After  this  short  preface,  I  shall  present  my  reader  with 
some  letters  which  I  have  received  upon  this  subject.  The 
first  is  sent  me  by  a  physician. 

"  Mb.  Spectator, 

The  lover's  leap  which  you  mention  in  your  223rd 
paper  was  generally,  I  believe,  a  very  effectual  cure  for  love, 
and  not  only  for  love,  but  for  all  other  evils.  In  abort,  sir,  I 
am  afraid  it  was  such  a  leap  as  that  which  Hero  took  to  get 
rid  of  li-;r  passion  for  Leander.  A  man  is  in  no  great  danger  of 


»reaking  his  heart,  who  breaks  his  neck  to  prevent  it.  t 
know  very  well  the  woodera  wMch  ancient  authors  relate 
Concerning  this  leap ;  and  in  particular,  that  very  many 
persons  who  tried  it  escaped  not  only  with  their  bvea  but 
their  limbs.  If  by  this  means  they  got  rid  of  their  love, 
ragh  it  may  in  part  be  ascribed  to  the  reasons  you  give 
it;  why  may  not  we  aupposo,  that  the  cold  hath  into 
which  they  plunged  themselves,  had  also  some  share  in  their 
cure  P  A  leap  into  the  aea,  or  into  any  creek  of  salt  waters, 
very  ofben  gives  a  new  motion  to  the  apiiits,  and  a  new  turn 
to  the  blood ;  for  which  reason  we  prescribe  it  in  distempera 
which  no  other  medicine  will  reach.  I  could  produce  a  quot- 
lation  out  of  a  very  venerable  author,  in  which  the  phreney 
produced  by  love  is  compared  to  that  which  ia  produced  by 
the  biting  of  a  mad  dog.  But  as  this  comparison  is  a  little 
too  coarse  for  your  paper,  and  might  look  as  if  it  were  cited  to 
ridicule  the  author  who  has  made  nee  of  it ;  I  ahail  only  hint 
pt  it,  and  desire  you  to  consider  whether,  if  the  phrensy  pro- 
duced by  these  two  different  causes  he  of  the  same  nature, 
it  may  not  very  properly  be  cured  by  the  same  means. 
"  I  am,  air,  your  loost  humble  servant, 

and  well-wisher,    MscuLAPixjaJ" 


I  am  a  young  woman  erossed  in  love.  My  story  is  very 
Ltmg  and  melancholy.  To  give  you  the  heads  of  it ;  a  young 
gentleman,  after  having  made  his  application  to  me  for  three 
■"lars  together,  and  filled  my  head  with  a  thousand  dreamaof 
ippinesa,  some  few  days  since  married  another.  Pray  teU 
me  in  what  part  of  the  world  your  promontory  lies  which 
you  call '  The  Lover's  Leap,'  and  whether  one  may  go  to  it 
IT  land  ?  But,  alas,  I  am  afraid  it  has  loat  ita  TOtue,  and 
tnat  a  woman  of  our  times  will  find  no  more  relief  in  taking 
■nch  a  leap,  than  in  singing  a  hymn  to  Venus,  So  that  I 
muBt  cry  out  with  Dido  ia  Drjdou'a  Virgil, 

Ah  1  cruel  Heaven,  that  made  no  cure  for  lave  I 

"  Tour  disconsolate  servant,     Athenais." 


My  heart  is  so  ftill  of  loves  and  passions  for  Mrs,  G^wi- 
id,  and  she  is  so  pettish,  and  over-run  with  cholers  agaimt 

me,  that  if  I  had  the  good  happiness  to  hare  my  dwelliit| 
(which  ia  placed  by  my  creat-cranfathcr  upon  the  pottcHI 
of  au  hill)  no  farther  distance  but  twenty  mile  from  the  Lofei^ 
Iicap,  I  cauld  indeed  indeafoui*  to  preak  my  neck  upon  it  a| 
purpOBe.  Now,  good  Mister  Spictatpe  of  Crete  Frittaifll 
you  must  know  it,  there  iss  in  CaemorvaDBbire  a  fery  pig 
momitain,  the  dory  of  all  Wales,  which  is  named  PenmaiBi 
maure,  and  you  must  also  know  it  iaa  no  great  journey  on  rooj 
from  me ;  but  the  road  is  stony  and  bad  for  shooes.  Ifoil 
there  is  upon  the  forehead  of  this  mountain  a  very  high  rooS 
(like  a  parish  steeple)  that  cometh  a  huge  deal  over  the  sea; 
80  whea  I  am  in  my  melancholies,  and  I  do  throw  myself  from 
it,  I  do  desire  my  fery  good  friend  to  tell  me  in  his  Spictatur, 
if  I  shall  be  euro  of  my  griefous  lofes  ;  for  there  ia  the  aea 
clear  aa  the  class,  and  ass  creen  as  the  leek :  then  likewiso,  if  I 
be  drown,  and  preak  my  neck,  if  Mrs.  Gwinifrid  will  not 
lofe  me  afterwards.  Pray  be  speedy  in  your  answers,  for  I 
am  in  crete  baste,  and  it  ia  my  teaires  to  do  my  pusinea^ 
without  loBS  of  time.  I  remain  with  cordial  j 
your  ever  lofing  friend, 

"Dattth  ap  Shencts." 

"P.  8.  My  law-suits  have  brought  me  to  London,but  I  have 

lost  my  causes;  and  so  have  made  my  resolutions  to  go  down 

and  leap  before  the  frosta  begin  ;  fori  am  apt  to  take  colda." 

Kidicule,  perhaps,  is  a  better  expedient  against  love  than 
sober  advice,  and  I  am  of  opinioa  that  Hudibras  and  Don 
Quixote  may  be  aa  effectual  to  cure  the  extravagances  of  this 
passion,  as  any  of  the  old  philosophers.  I  shall  therefore 
publish,  verr  apeedily,  the  translation  of  a  little  Greek  manu- 
script, which  is  sent  me  by  a  learned  friend.  It  appears  to 
have  been  a  piece  of  those  records  which  were  kept  in  the 
little  temple  of  Apollo,  that  atood  upon  the  promontory  of 

y  pusinesB 

Leucate.     Tbe  reader  will  find  it  to  be  the 


of  several  persona  who  tried  the  lover's  leap,  and  ot  the  sue- 
cesa  they  found  in  it.  As  there  seem  to  be  in  it  aoms  ana- 
chronisms and  deviationa  from  the  ancient  orthography,  I 
am  not  wholly  satisfied  myself  that  Jt  is  authentic,  and  not 
rather  the  production  of  one  of  those  Grecian  sophiatera, 
who  have  imposed  upon  the  world  several  spurious  works  of 
this  nature.  I  apeak  this  by  way  of  precaution,  because 
I  know  there  are  several  writers,  of  uncommon  eruditioi 

who  would  not  fail  to  expose  my  ignorance  if  they  caught  me 
tripping  in  a  matter  of  so  great  moment. 

No.  229.     THUESDAY,  NOVEMBBE  22. 


IS  pueUae. 

[ONfl  tbe  many  famous  pieces  of  ontiquity  which  are 
still  to  be  seen  at  Homo,  there  is  the  trunk  of  a  statue  which 
has  lost  the  arms,  lega,  and  head ;  but  diacoverB  such  an  ex- 
quisite workmanship  in  what  remains  of  it,  that  Michael 
Angelo  declared  he  had  learned  hia  whole  art  from  it.  In- 
deed he  studied  it  so  uttentively,  that  he  made  moat  of  hia 
statues,  and  even  his  pictures,  in  that  Ousto,  to  make  use  of 
the  Italian  phrase  ;  for  which  reason  this  maimed  statue  is 
atill  called  Michael  Angelo's  school. 

A  fragment  of  Sappho,  which  I  design  for  the  subject  of 
this  paper,  is  in  as  great  reputation  among  the  poets  and 
critics,  as  the  mutdated  figure  above-mentioned  is  among  the 
Btatuaiies  and  painters.  Several  of  our  countrymen,  and 
Mr.  Dryden  in  particular,  seem  very  often  to  have  copied 
after  it  in  their  dramatic  writings  and  in  their  poems  upon 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  occasion  of  this  Ode,  the 
English  reader  will  enter  into  the  beauties  of  it,  if  he  sup- 
poses it  to  have  been  written  in  the  person  of  a  lover  sitting 
by  his  mistress.  I  shall  set  to  view  three  different  copies  of 
this  beautiful  origmal ;  the  first  is  a  translation  by  Catullus, 
the  second  by  Monsieur  Boileau,  and  the  last  by  a  gentle- 
tnan  whose  translation  of  the  Hymn  to  Yenus  has  bees  so 
deservedly  admired. 

lUe  ml  pai  esse  deo  Tidetiii, 
Ille  ai  fas  est,  superore  dives, 
Qui  aedens  adveraiis  idenlidem  te, 

Specloi,  cl  audit 
Dulce  ridGntem,  misero  quod  omnit 
Eripit  scuBus  milii :  nam  simul  te, 
Lesbitt,  aapeii,  nihil  est  super  ml 

Quod  logvar  ametii. 


J.ingui  Bed  lorpef,  tenui»  sob  artm 
Flsmma  dimaJiBt,  Bonilu  EUopte 
Tinniimt  aurcs,  pemini  leguntur 

My  learned  reader  will  know  very  well  the  reaaon  v 
one  of  these  veraes  is  printed  in  Italic  letter ;  and  if 
compareB  this  traBsIation  with  the  origiDa],  will  find  that  t] 
three  first  atanzaa  are  rendered  almost  word  for  word,  and  n 
only  with  the  same  elegance,  but  with  the  same  short  turn  o^ 
espresaion  which  ia  ao  remarkable  in  the  Greek,  and  bo  pec 
liar  to  the  Sapphic  Ode.     I  cannot  imagine  for  what  n 
Madame  Dacier  has  told  us,  that  this  Ode  of  Sappho  it 
served  entire  in  Louginus,  since  it  is  manifest  to  an^ 
who  looks  into  that  author's  quotation  of  it,  that  there  mm 
at  least  have  been  another  stanza,  which  is  not  tranamitt 

Heuieuxl  qui  pt^a  de  to[,  poui  tot  seule  sodpire: 
Qui  jouit  du  plaiair  de  t'enteiidie  puJei; 
Qui  ts  Toit  quelquefois  doucement  lui  soAiire. 
LeB  Dieux,  dojis  boh  bonhenr,  peuvent-ils  1'  ^galer  J 
Je  sens  de  veins  an  Teine  une  aublila  flanune 
Courir  pur  lout  mon  corps,  si-tot  que  Je  te  vols  : 
Et  dana  les  doux  transports,  oA  s'egaie  mon  une, 
J«  ne  Bi^urois  trouvei  de  langue,  ni  de  voix. 
Un  nuEga  confua  ae  T6pand  Eur  ma  vuS, 
Je  n'entens  plus,  je  tombe  en  de  douces  langmmrs; 
Et  pftle,  sans  haleine,  inlerdile,  esperdue, 
Un  frisson  me  soisit,  je  li^mble,  je  me  mcuTB. 

The  reader  will  see  that  this  is  rather  an  imitation  than  a 
translation.  The  circumstances  do  not  lie  so  thick  togethw, 
and  follow  one  another  with  that  vehemence  and  emotion,  b 
in  the  original.  Id  short,  Monsieur  Boileau  has  given  us  all 
the  poetry,  but  not  all  the  passion  of  this  famoua  fragment, 
I  shall  in  the  last  place  present  my  reader  with  the  TIngli^t[| 

Softl;  spenk  and  i 

ts  by  itee, 
i  ui(!0  all  the  while 
weetly  amile. 


'Twaa  tliia  deprived  mj  soul  of  rest, 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  m;  breact; 
For  while  I  gased,  in  transport  (oat, 
My  breath  was  gone,  rny  voice  was  loat : 

My  boBOm  glowed  ;  Has  subtlo  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame  ; 
O'l^r  my  dim  eyes  a  darkiiras  hung; 
My  easa  with  hollow  te 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chilled ; 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled ; 
My  feeble  pulae  forgot  to  play ; 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

Instead  of  giving  any  character  of  thia  last  translation,  I 
shall  deeire  my  learned  reader  to  look  into  the  criticiams 
■which  LonginuB  has  made  upon  the  original.  By  that  means 
he  win  know  to  which  of  the  translations  he  ought  to  give 
the  preference.  I  shall  only  add,  that  thia  translation  is 
written  in  the  very  spirit  of  Sappho,  and  aa  near  the  Greek 
IB  the  geniuB  of  our  wnguage  will  possibly  suffer. 

LonginuB  has  obaened,  that  thia  description  of  love  in 
Sappho  ia  an  exact  copy  of  nature,  and  that  all  the  circuni- 
atances,  which  follow  one  another  in  auch  an  hurry  of  senti- 
ments, notwithatanding  they  appear  repugnant  to  each  other, 
are  really  such  aa  happen  in  the  frenziea  of  love. 

I  wonder  that  not  one  of  the  critics  or  editors,  through 
whose  handa  thia  Ode  has  passed,  haa  taken  occasion  irom  it 
to  mention  a  circumstance  related  by  Plutarch.  That  author, 
in  the  femona  story  of  Antiochua,  who  fell  in  love  with 
Stratonice,  hia  motlier-in-law,  and  (not  daring  to  discover 
hia  passion)  pretended  to  be  confined  to  hia  bed  by  hia  sick- 
ness, tells  us,  that  Eraaietratus,  the  physician,  found  out  the 
nature  of  hia  diatemper  by  those  symptomB  of  love  which  he 
had  learnt  from  Sappho'a  writings.  Stratonice  was  in  the 
room  of  the  love-sick  prince,  when  these  aymptoma  discovered 
themaelves  to  hia  phyaician;  and  it  ia  probable  that  they 
■were  not  very  different  fi-oni  those  which  Sappho  here  de- 
Bcribes  in  a  lover  sitting  by  hia  mistreas.  This  story  of 
Antiochua  ia  so  well  known,  that  I  need  not  add  the  aequel 
«f  it,  which  baa  n-)  relation  to  my  present  aubject. 


No.  231.    BArUEDAY,  NOVEMBEB  24. 

OPador!  O  Pietas!- 


LooEiSE^  over  the  lettera  which  I  have  lately  receive 
from  my  correspondenta,  I  met  with  the  following  one,  whii 
is  written  with  auch  a  spirit  of  politeness,  that  I  could  n 
but  be  very  much  pleased  with  it  myaelf,  and  question  n 
but  it  will  be  aa  acceptable  to  the  reader. 

"  Me.  Spec  tat  OB, 

Tou,  who  are  uo  etranger  to  public  aBsembliea, 
but  have  observed  the  awe  they  often  Htrite  ou  such 
obliged  to  exert  any  talent  before  them.  This  ia  a  ! 
elegoat  diatreas,  to  which  ingenuous  minds  are  the  most 
ble,  and  may  therefore  deserve  some  remarks  in  your  paj 
Many  a  brave  fellow,  who  haa  put  his  enemy  to  night  m 
field,  has  been  in  the  utmost  disorder  upon  maVing  a  spei 
before  a  body  of  his  fidends  at  home :  oue  would  thint  th^A 
was  some  kind  of  fascination  in  the  eyea  of  a  large  circle  of 
people,when  darting  all  together  upon  one  person.  I  have  seen 
a  new  actor  in  a  tragedy  so  bound  up  by  it,  as  to  be  scarce 
able  to  speak  or  move,  and  have  expected  he  would  have  died 
above  three  acts  before  the  dagger  or  cup  of  poison  wert; 
brought  in.  It  wotild  not  be  amiss,  if  such  an  one  were  at 
first  introduced  as  a  ghost,  or  a  statue,  tOl  he  recovered  hu^ 
spirits,  and  grew  fit  wr  some  living  part. 

"  As  this  sudden  desertion  of  one  s  self  shows  a  diffidence^ 
which  ia  not  displeasing,  it  implies  at  the  same  time  thfi- 
greatest  respect  to  an  audience  that  can  be.  It  is  a  sort  of 
mute  eloquence,  which  pleads  for  their  favour  much  better- 
than  words  could  do ;  and  we  find  their  generosity  naturally' 
moved  to  support  those  who  are  in  so  much  perplexity  to  I 
entertain  them.  I  was  greatly  pleased  with  a  late  instance 
of  this  kind  at  the  opera  of  AlmahJde,  in  the  encouragement 
given  to  a  young  singer,  whose  more  than  ordinary  concern 
on  her  first  appearance  recommended  her  no  less  than  her 
agreeable  voice,  and  just  performance.  Mere  bashfulneBS 
without  merit  is  awkward ;  and  merit  without  modesty,  in- 
solent. But  modest  merit  has  a  double  claim  to  acceptance^ 
and  generally  meets  with  as  many  patrona  as  beholders. 

It  is  impossible  that  a  person  should  eiert  himself  to  nil- 
vantage  in  an  asBembly,  whether  it  be  his  part  either  to  eing 
or  apeak,  who  lies  under  too  great  oppressions  of  modesty. 
I  remember,  upon  talking  with  a  friend  of  mine  concerning 
the  force  of  pronnEciation,  oar  diBcourae  led  ua  into  the 
enumeration  of  the  several  organs  of  speech  which  an  orator 
ought  to  have  in  perfection,  as  the  tongue,  the  teeth,  the 
lips,  the  nose,  the  palate,  and  the  windpipe.  Upon  which, 
sajs  my  friend,  you  have  omitted  the  most  material  organ 
of  them  all,  and  that  is  the  forehead. 

But  notwithstanding  an  excess  of  modesty  obstructs  the 
toi^e,  and  renders  it  nnfltfor  its  offices,  a  due  proportion 
of  it  ia  thought  so  requisite  to  an  orator,  that  rhetoricians 
hare  recommended  it  to  their  disciples  as  a  particular  in  their 
art.  Cicero  tells  us,  that  he  never  liked  an  orator,  who  did 
not  appear  in  some  little  confusion  at  the  beginning  of  his 
Bpeecn,  and  confesses  that  he  himself  never  entered  upon  an 
oration  without  trembling  and  concern.  It  is,  indeed,  a  bind 
of  deference  which  is  due  to  a  great  assembly,  and  seldom 
£[u1b  to  raise  a  benevolence  in  the  audience  towards  the  per- 
son who  speaks.  My  correspondent  has  taken  notice,  that 
the  bravest  men  often  appear  timorous  on  these  occasions; 
as  indeed  we  may  observe  that  there  ia  generally  no  creatore 
more  impudent  than  a  coward. 

— Lingua  melior ;  sed  frigida  bpllo 
DexUnn — 

A  bold  tongue,  and  a  feeble  arm,  are  the  qualifications  of 
Drances  in  Tirgil ;  as  Homer,  to  express  a  man  both  timor- 
ous and  saucy,  makes  use  of  a  kind  of  point,  which  is  very 
rarely  to  be  met  with  in  his  writings  ;  namely,  that  he  had 
the  eyes  of  a  dog,  but  the  heart  of  a  deer. 

A  just  and  reasonable  modesty  does  not  only  recommend 
eloc^uence,  but  sets  off  every  great  talent  which  a  man  can 
be  possessed  of.  It  heightena  all  the  virtuea  which  it  accom- 
puues;  like  the  shades  in  paintings,  it  raises  and  rounds 
every  figure,  and  makes  the  coloura  more  beautiful,  though 
not  so  glaring  as  they  would  be  without  it. 

Modesty  is  not  only  an  ornament,  but  also  a  guard  to 
Tirtne.  It  is  a  kind  of  quick  and  delicate  "feeling"  in  the 
■soul,  which  makes  her  anrink  and  withdraw  herself  from 
,«natyt]aag  that  has  danger  in  it.     It  is  such  on  exquisite 


Benfiibility,  as  wamB  her  to  ahuH  the  first  appearanco  of  evM 
thing  which  is  hurtful. 

I  cimnot  at  present  recollect  either  the  place  or  time 
what  I  am  going  to  mention  ;  but  I  have  read  Bomewbere  i] 
the  biBtory  of  ancient  Greece,  that  tho  women  of  the  com  ' 
try  were  seized  with  an  ima<^countable  melaccboly,  whjt_j 
disposed  aeveral  of  them  to  make  away  with  themaelves.  The 
senate,  after  having  tried  many  expedients  to  prevent  thia 
eelf-murder,  whicb  was  so  frequent  among  them,  published 
an  edict,  that  if  any  woman  whatever  should  lay  violent 
hands  upon  heraelf,  her  corpse  should  be  expoaed  nalied  in 
the  street,  and  dragged  about  the  city  in  the  most  public 
mariner.  Thia  edict  immediately  put  a  stop  to  the  praetica 
which  was  before  so  common.  We  may  see  in  this  instance 
the  strength  of  female  modesty,  which  was  able  to  overci 
the  violence  even  of  madness  and  despair.  The  fear  of  shi 
in  the  fair  sea  was  in  those  days  more  prevalent  than  tl 
of  death. 

If  modesty  has  so  great  an  influence  over  our  actions,  and 
ia  in  many  cases  so  impregnable  a  fence  to  virtue,  what 
can  more  undermine  morabty  than  that  politeness  which 
reigna  among  the  unthinking  part  of  mankind,  and  treats  aa 
uulasbionable  the  moat  ingenuous  part  of  our  behaviour; 
which  recommends  impudence  aa  good  breeding,  and  keeps 
a  man  always  in  countenance,  not  because  he  is  innocent, 
but  because  he  is  shameless. 

Seneca  thought  modesty  so  great  a  cheek  to  vice,  that  he 
prescribes  to  us  the  practice  of  it  in  secret,  and  advises  us  to 
raise  it  in  ourselves  upon  imaginary  occasions,  when  such  as 
are  real  do  not  offer  themselves ;  for  this  is  the  meaning  of 
bis  precept,  that  when  we  are  by  ourselves,  and  in  our  great- 
est solitudes,  we  should  fancy  that  Cato  stands  before  us, 
and  sees  everything  we  do.  In  short,  if  yon  banish  Modesty 
out  of  the  world,  she  carries  away  with  her  half  the  virtue, 
that  is  in  it. 

After  these  reflections  on  modesty,  as  it  is  a  virtue,  I- 
must  observe,  that  there  is  a  vicious  modesty,  which  justfy 
deserves  to  be  ridiculed,  and  which  those  persons  very  often 
discover,  who  value  themselves  most  upon  a  well-bred  confi- 
dence. Tliis  happens  when  a  man  is  ashamed  to  act  up  to 
his  reason,  and  would  not  upon  any  consideration  be  auis 
prised  in  tho  practice  of  those  duties,  for  tho  performance  at 



rhicfa  he  was  sent  into  the  world.  Many  an  impudent 
ibertiiie  would  bluah  to  be  caiight  in  a  serioua  diacoiirae, 
md  would  acaree  be  able  to  show  his  head,  after  haTing  dia- 
toaed  a  religious  thought.  Deceacy  of  behaviour,  ail  out- 
irard  show  of  virtue,  and  abhorrence  of  vice,  are  carefully 
iToided  by  this  set  of  shanied-faced  people,  aa  what  would 
"  iparage  their  gaiety  of  temper,  and  infallibly  bring  them 

oiBhonour.  This  is  such  a  poorness  of  apirit,  such  a  dea- 
ncable  cowardice,  auch  a  degenerate,  abject  state  of  mind,  as 
axe  would  think  bumoa  nature  incapable  of,  did  we  not  meet 
with  frequent  instances  of  it  in  ordinary  convereation. 

There  is  another  kind  of  vicious  mooesty,  which  makes  a 
nan  ashamed  of  bis  person,  his  birth,  his  profession,  bia 
wverty,  or  the  like  miafortunea,  which  it  was  not  in  his 
Ice  to  prevent,  and  is  not  in  hia  power  to  rectify.  If  a 
I  appears  ridiculous  by  any  of  the  aforementioned  cir- 
Bumatances,  he  becomea  much  more  so  by  being  out  of  coun- 
enance  for  them.  They  should  rather  give  him  occaaion  to 
excite  a  noble  spirit,  and  to  palliate  those  imperfections 
rhich  are  not  in  his  power,  by  thoae  perfections  which  are ; 
W,  to  use  a  very  witty  aUusion  of  an  eminent  author,  he 
bould  imitate  Cffisar,  who,  because  his  head  was  bald, 
Dovered  that  defect  with  laurels. 

Ko.  233.     TXTESDAT,  NOVEMBEE  27. 

Lpoilo  upor 
)ry  of  the 

I  BHAXL,  in  this  paper,  discharge  myaelf  of  the  promise  I 
ive  made  to  the  public,  by  obliging  them  with  a  translation 
'the  little  Greek  manuacript,  which  is  said  to  have  been  a 
"  those  records  that  ia  preaerved  in  the  temple  of 
the  promontory  of  Leucste :  it  is  a  short  his- 
Lover'a  Leap,  and  ia  inacribed,  "An  account  of 
male  and  female,  who  offered  up  their  vows  in  the 
mpie  of  the  Pythian  Apollo,  in  the  forty-sisth  Olympiad, 
id  leaped  from  the  promontory  of  Leucate  into  the  Ionian 
»,  in  order  to  cure  themselves  of  the  passion  of  love." 
This  account  is  very  dry  in  many  parts,  as  only  meation- 
g  the  name  of  the  lover  who  leaped,  the  person  he  lea  ' 
r,  and  relating,  in  short,  that  he  was  either  cured,  or  kil 

OP  Di&uued,  by  the  fall.  It  indeed  gives  the  names  of  ri 
mauy  who  died  by  it,  that  it  would  have  looked  like  a  bill  8,, 
mortality  had  I  trMialated  it  at  full  length ;  I  have  there* 
fore  made  an  abridgment  of  it,  and  only  extracted  such  par- 
ticular pasaogea  aa  have  eomething  eitraordinary,  either  in 
the  case,  or  in  the  cure,  or  in  the  late  of  the  person  who  ia 
mentioned  in  it.     After  this  abort  prefiice,  take  the  a  '^ 

06  follows. 

Battus,  the  Bon  of  Menalcas,  the  Sicilian,  leaped  for  Bob 
byca  the  musician;  got  rid  of  his  paasion  witn  the  loss  tt 
his  right  leg  and  arm,  which  were  broken  in  the  fall.  ' 

MeTisBa,  in  love  with   Daphnis,  very  much  bruised,  I 
escaped  with  life. 

Cynisca,  the  wife  of  .SschineB,  being  in  love  with  LyeUB  * 
and -^chines  berhusbandbeing  in  love  with  Eurilla;  (which 
had  made  thia  married  couple  very  uneasy  to  one  another  for 
several  years ;)  both  the  husband  and  the  wife  took  the  leap 
by  consent ;  they  both  of  them  escaped,  and  have  lived  very 
happUy  together  ever  since. 

Lanseo,  a  virgin  of  ThesBaly  deserted  by  Pleiippus,  after 
a  courtBhip  of  three  years  ;  she  stood  upon  the  brow  of  the 
promontory  for  some  time,  and  having  thrown  down  a  ring, 
a  bracelet,  and  a  little  picture,  with  other  presents  whicb 
she  had  received  from  PlexippuB,  she  threw  herself  into  the 
sea,  and  waa  taken  up  aUve. 

^,  B.  Larissa,  before  she  leaped,  made  an  offering  o 
silver  Cupid,  in  the  temple  of  Apollo. 

Simtetha,  in  love  with  Daphnis  the  Mynilian,  perished  i 
the  fall. 

Chariius,  the  brother  of  Sappho,  in  love  with  Ehodope  tlw 
courtesan,  having  spent  his  whole  estate  upon  her,  was  ad 
vised  by  his  sister  to  leap  in  the  beginning  of  his  amoiir,  but'J 
would  not  hearken  to  her  till  he  was  reduced  to  his  last  b 
lent ;  being  forsaken  by  Rhodope,  at  length  resolved  to  ti 
the  leap.     Perished  in  it. 

Aridteus,  a  beautiiu)  youth  of  Epirus,  in  love  with  Pra 
noe,  the  wife  of  Tlieapis,  escaped  without  damage,  saving  ' 
only  that  two  of  hia  foreteeth  were  struck  out,  and  his  noas 
a  little  flatted. 

Cleora,  a  widow  of  Epbesua,  being  inconsolable  for  the 
death  of  her  husband,  was  resolved  to  take  this  leap,  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  her  passion  for  his  memory ;  but  being  arrived 

At  the  promontory,  she  there  met  with  Dimmachua  the  Mi- 
letian,  Bud  after  a  short  conTereation  with  him,  laid  aside 
toe  thoughta  of  her  leap,  and  married  him  in  the  temple  of 
,  Apollo. 

N,  B,  Her  widow's  weeds  are  etill  to  be  seen,  hanging  up 
in  the  western  comer  of  the  temple. 

Olphis,  the  fisherman,  having  received  a  hox  on  the  ear 
from  TheBtylia  the  day  hefore,  and  being  determined  to  have 
10  more  to  do  with  her,  leaped,  and  escaped  with  life. 

Atalanta,  an  old  maid,  whose  cruelty  had  aeveral  years  be- 
fore driven  two  or  three  despairing  lovers  to  this  leap ;  being 
now  in  the  fifty-fifth  yem-  of  her  age,  and  in  love  with  an 
Tfficer  of  Sparta,  broke  her  neck  in  the  fall. 

EipparchuSj  being  passionately  fond  of  hia  own  wife,  who 
vas  enamoured  of  Bathyllus,  leaped  and  died  of  his  fall ; 
npoa  which  his  wife  married  her  gallant. 

Tettyi,  the  dancing-maater,  in  love  with  Oljmpia,  an 
■Athenian  matron,  threw  himself  from  the  rock  with  great 
agility,  bnt  was  crippled  in  the  fall. 

Diagoraa,  the  usurer,  in  love  with  his  cook-maid;  he 
peeped  several  times  over  the  precipice,  but  his  heart  mis- 
giving  him,  he  went  back,  and  married  her  that  evening. 

Cin»du8,  after  having  entered  bis  own  name  in  the  Py- 
thian records,  being  asked  the  name  of  the  person  whom  he 
leaped  for,  and  being  ashamed  to  discover  it,  he  was  set  aside, 
and  not  suffered  to  leap- 

Eunica,  a  maid  of  Paphos,  aged  nineteen,  in  love  with 
Eurybates.     Hurt  in  the  fall,  but  recovered. 

iv.  B.  This  was  her  second  time  of  leaping. 

HesperuB,  a  young  man  of  Tarentnm,  in  love  with  his 
kDastera  daughter.  Drowned,  the  boats  not  coming  in  soon 
enough  to  his  relief. 

"      )ho  the  Lesbian,  in  love  with  Phaon,  arrived  at  the 

^__  of  Apollo,  habited  like  a  bride  in  garments  as  white 

^^  a  tnow.  She  wore  a  garland  of  myrtle  on  her  head,  and 
iBrried  in  her  hand  a  little  musical  mstrument  of  her  own 
invention.  After  having  suug  an  hymn  to  Apollo,  she  hung 
tap  her  garland  on  one  side  of  his  altar,  and  her  harp  ou 
(£e  other.  She  then  tucked  up  her  vestments  like  a  Spar- 
fan  virgin,  and  amidst  thousands  of  spectators,  who  were 
nudous  for  her  safety,  and  offered  up  vows  for  her  deUvep- 
ince,  marched  directly  forwards  to  the  utmost  summit  of  the 

124  Addison's  wobks. 

proraontory.  where  after  having  repeated  a  stanza  of  h>ir  a 
verses,  which  we  could  not  hear,  she  threw  herself  off  ti 
rock  with  auch  an  intrepidity,  as  was  never  before  observe* 
in  any  who  had  attempted  that  dangerous  leap.  Many  whi 
■were  present  related,  thn.t  they  saw  her  fall  into  the  sea 
from  whence  she  never  rose  again;  though  there  were  otheri 
■who  aiErmed,  that  ahe  never  came  to  the  bottom  of  her  leap 
but  that  ahe  was  changed  into  a  swan  as  she  fell,  and  tha- 
they  saw  her  hovering  iu  the  air  under  that  shape.  Bui 
whether  or  no  the  whiteness  and  fluttering  of  her  garmenti 
might  not  deceive  those  who  looked  upon  her,  or  whethei 
she  might  not  really  be  metamorphosed  into  that  mufliea 
and  melancholy  bird,  is  stiU  a  doubt  among  the  Lesbians. 

Alcaaus,  the  famous  lyric  poet,  who  had  for  some  timt 
been  passionately  in  love  with  Sappho,  arrived  at  the  pro- 
montory of  Leucate  that  very  evening,  in  order  to  take  tht 
leap  upon  her  account ;  but  hearing  that  Sappho  had  beei 
there  before  him,  and  that  her  body  could  be  nowhere  found, 
he  very  generously  lamented  her  fall,  and  ia  said  to  have 
written  his  hundred  and  twenty-fifth  Ode  upon  that  occasion. 
Leaped  in  t/tis  Olympiad  250. 

Males  12i 

Females  126 

Cvred  120. 

Males  51 

i  69 


No.  236.     THURSDAY,  NOVEMBER  29. 

These  ia  nothing  which  lies  more  ■within  the  province  of 
a  Spectator  than  public  shows  and  diversions ;  and  as  among 
these  there  are  none  ■which  can  pretend  to  vie  with  those 
elegant  entertainments  that  are  exhibited  in  our  theatres,  I 
think  it  particularly  incumbent  on  me  to  take  notice  of 
everything  that  is  remarkable  in  such  numerous  and  refined 

It  is  observed,  that  of  late  years  there  has  been  a  certain 
person  in  the  upper  galleiy  oi  the  play-house,  who,  when  he 

■  pleased  with  anything  that  is  aetei  upon  the  stage,  ei- 
ireaBea  his  approbation  by  a  loud  knock  upon  the  beacbea 
r  the  wainscot,  which  may  he  heard  over  the  whole  theatre. 
?hia  person  ia  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  the  "  Trunk- 
laker  in  the  upper  gallery."  Whether  it  be,  that  the  blow 
B  gives  on  these  occasions  resembles  that  which  is  often 
%eajrd  in  the  shops  of  such  artisans,  or  that  he  was  supposed 
to  have  been  a  real  trunk-maker,  who,  after  the  finishing  of 
his  day's  work,  used  to  unbend  his  mind  at  these  public 
diversions  with  his  hammer  in  his  hand,  I  cannot  certainly 
ell.  There  are  some,  I  know,  who  have  beoE  foolish  euougn 
0  imagine  it  ia  a  spirit  which  haunts  the  upper  gallery,  and 
rom  time  to  time  makes  those  strange  noises;  and  the 
Bther,  because  he  is  observed  to  be  louder  than  ordinary 
wery  time  the  ghost  of  Hamlet  appears.  Others  have  report- 
i  that  it  is  a  dumb  man,  who  has  chosen  this  way  of  uttering 
f,  when  he  is  transported  with  anything  he  sees  or 
Others  will  have  it  to  be  the  play-house  thunderer, 
iBt  eserts  himself  after  this  manner  in  the  upper  gallery, 
hen  he  hae  nothing  to  do  upon  the  roof 
But  having  made  it  my  business  to  get  the  best  iuforma- 
ion  I  could  in  a  matter  of  this  moment,  I  find  that  the 
Irunk-maker,  as  he  is  commonly  called,  ia  a  large  black  man, 
^hom  nobody  knows.  lie  generally  leans  forward  on  a 
huge  oaken  plant,  vrith  great  attention  to  everything  that 
a  upon  the  stage.  He  is  never  seen  to  smile  ;  but  upon 
Qg  anything  that  pleases  him,  he  takes  up  his  staff  with 
nth  hands,  and  lays  it  upon  the  next  piece  of  timber 
lat  stands  in  his  way  with  esceeding  vehemence:  after 
rMch  be  composes  himself  in  his  former  posture,  till  such 
ime  as  something  new  sets  him  again  at  work. 

It  has  been  observed,  his  blow  is  so  well  timed,  that  the 
nOBt  judicious  critic  could  never  escept  against  it.  As  soon 
B  any  shining  thought  is  expressed  in  the  poet,  or  any  uncom- 
llon  grace  appears  in  the  actor,  he  smites  the  bench  or  wain- 
Bot.  If  the  audience  does  not  concur  with  him,  he  smites 
^  aecond  time ;  and  if  the  audience  is  not  yet  awaked,  looks 
ound  him  with  great  wrath,  and  repeats  the  blow  a  third 
em,  which  never  Ma  to  produce  the  elop.  He  sometimeo 
Bts  the  audience  begin  the  clap  uf  theuifielves,  and  at  the 
lonoluBion  of  their  applause  ratifies  it  with  a  single  thwack. 
He  ie  ,of  so  great  use  to  the  play-house,  that  it  is  said  a 

ADDI30N  a   WOEKS. 

furmer  director  of  it,  upon  his  not  being  able  to  pay  liia  i 
tendance  by  reaaon  of  aiekneas,  kept  one  in  pay  to  officiate 
for  him  till  auch  time  as  Le  recovered ;  but  the  person  bo  era- 
ployed,  though  he  laid  about  him  with  incredible  violence, 
aid  it  in  sucfi  wrong  places,  that  the  audience  soon  found  out 
that  it  was  not  their  old  friend  tho  Trunk-maker. 

It  baa  been  remarked,  that  he  has  not  yet  exerted  himself 
with  vigour  this  aeason.  Ho  aometimes  plies  at  the  opera; 
and  upon  Mcolini'a  firat  appearance,  was  said  to  have  demol- 
iahed  three  benches  in  the  tury  of  hla  applause.  He  has  broken 
half  a  dozen  oaken  plants  upon  Dogget ;  and  aeldom  goes 
away  fromatrngedy  of  Shaispeare,  without  leaving  the  wain- 
Boot  eitremely  shattered. 

The  players  do  not  only  connive  at  this  hia  obatreperoua  ap- 
probation, but  very  cheerfully  repair  at  their  own  coat  what- 
ever damage  he  makes.  They  had  once  a  thought  of  erecting  a 
kind  of  wooden  anvil  for  his  use,  that  ehould  be  made  of  a 
very  Bounding  plank,  in  order  to  render  his  strokes  more  deep 
and  mellow  ;  but  as  this  might  not  have  been  diatinguiahea 
from  the  muaic  of  a  kettle-drum,  the  project  was  laid  aside. 

In  the  mean  while  I  cannot  but  take  notice  of  the  great 
use  it  ia  to  an  audience,  that  a  person  ahould  thus  preaida 
over  their  heada,  like  the  director  of  a  concert,  in  order  to 
awaken  their  attention,  and  beat  time  to  their  applauaea  ;  or, 
to  raise  my  simile,  I  have  sometimes  fancied  the  iWik-inakep 
in  the  upper  gallery  to  be  like  Virgil's  ruler  of  the  wind, 
aeated  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain,  who,  when  he  struck  hia 
sceptre  upon  the  aide  of  it,  rouaed  an  hurricane,  and  aet  the 
whole  cavern  in  an  uproar. 

It  ia  certain  the  Trunk-maker  baa  saved  many  a  good  play, 
and  brought  many  a  graceful  actor  into  reputation,  who  would 
not  otherwiae  have  been  taken  notice  of.  It  ia  very  viaible, 
aa  the  audience  is  not  a  little  abashed  if  they  find  themselves 
betrayed  into  a  clap,  when  their  friend  in  the  upper  gallery 
does  not  come  into  it ;  so  the  actors  do  not  value  themaelvcB 
upon  the  clap,  but  regard  it  as  a  mere  brvtum  julmen,  or 
empty  noise,  when  it  has  not  the  sound  of  the  oaken  plant  in 
it.  I  know  it  has  been  given  out  by  those  who  are  enemies 
to  the  Trunk-maker,  that  he  has  sometimes  been  bribed  to  be 
in  the  interest  of  a  bad  poet,  or  a  vicioua  player ;  but  this  ia 
a  surmise  which  has  no  foundation ;  his  strokes  are  always 
just,  and  hia  admonitions  seasonable ;  be  doea  not  deal  about 


13  blowa  at  random,  but  always  hits  the  right  nail  upon  the 
1.  That  inerpreasible  force  wherewith  he  lays  them  on, 
ciently  shows  the  eyidence  and  strength  of  hia  conviction. 
9  zeal  for  a  good  author  'm  indeed  outrageous,  and  breaks 
own  every  fence  and  partition,  every  board  and  plank,  that 
tande  within  the  expression  of  his  applause. 
As  I  do  not  care  for  terminating  my  thoughts  in  barren 
^culationa,  or  in  reports  of  pure  matter  or  fact,  without 
jawing  Bometbing  from  them  for  the  advantage  of  my 
jountryinen,  I  shail  take  the  liberty  to  make  an  humble  pro- 
losal,  that  whenever  the  Trunk-maker  shall  depart  this  life, 
r  whenever  he  shall  have  loat  the  spring  of  his  arm  by  siek- 
«8B,  old  age,  infirmity,  or  the  like,  some  able-bodied  critic 
ihoijd  be  advanced  to  this  post,  and  have  a  competent  salary 
settled  on  him  for  life,  to  be  furnished  with  bamboos  for 
^ras,  erab-tree  cudgels  for  comedies,  and  oaken  plants  for 
iragedy,  at  the  pubhc  expense.  And  to  the  end  that  this 
place  should  be  always  disposed  of  according  to  merit,  I  would 
iave  none  preferred  to  it,  who  baa  not  given  convincing  proofs 
wth  of  a  sound  judgment  and  a  strong  arm,  and  who  could 
lot,  upon  occasion,  either  knock  down  an  os,  or  write  a  com- 
at  upon  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry.  In  short,  I  would  have 
I  a  due  composition  of  Hercules  and  Apollo,  and  so 
rightly  qualified  for  this  important  office,  that  the  Trunk- 
'   r  may  not  be  missed  by  our  posterity. 

So.  237.     8ATUEDAT,  DECEMBEE  1. 

Visu  careatem  magna  para  vcri  lati^.  Senec.  in  Oedip. 
It  is  very  reasonable  to  believe,  that  part  of  the  pleasure 
whicb  happy  minds  shall  enjoy  in  a  future  state,  will  arise 
n  enlarged  contemplation  of  the  Divine  wisdom  in  the 
iment  of  the  world,  and  a  discovery  of  the  secret  and 
__  steps  of  Providence,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
time.  Nothing  seems  to  be  an  entertainment  more  adapted 
_,  the  nature  of  man,  if  we  consider  that  curiosity  is  one  of 
the  strongest  and  most  lasting  appetites  implanted  in  us,  and 
that  admiration  is  one  of  our  most  pleasing  passions  ;  and 
ichat  a  perpetual  succession  of  enjoyments  will  be  afforded  to 
toth  these,  in  a  scene  so  large  and  various  as  shall  then  b 

,   B  !•  Mv  TOW  m  tW  socKt*  of  mperioT  epirite,  iH 
ftAaf»  «9  ^ocB  wilb  oi  ia  K>  ddigfatAil »  prospect ! 

It  «  Mat  aapMsUi^  on  tlte  eoDtruy,  that  part  of  U 
jH^itmtad  ai  *wl>  ■■  b*  ndtided  from  bliss,  may  eonaii 
ml  odIj'  n  tMr  being  denied  tliu  privilege,  but  in  bann 
ibtat  appetitn  at  tlw  «me  tiine  nstly  incrraaed,  vithoi 
atf  Mntnttiom  lAnded  to  them.  In  these,  the  Tain  punu 
ot  kncnriedge  AaU,  pcrhapc,  ndd  to  tbdr  infelicity,  and  bi 
wiUer  tlien  in  labyrinths  of  error,  darknefls.  distracftion,  on 
nacartainty  of  ererftbiog  but  their  own  evil  state.  Milta 
haa  thus  repreaented  the  fallen  angels  reaBoning  together  i 
A  kind  of  respite  from  their  torments,  and  creating  to  them 
BelTes  a  new  disquiet  amidst  their  very  amusements :  fa 
eouM  not  properly  have  described  the  sports  of  condemnei 
spirita.  witnout  that  cast  of  horror  and  melancholy  he  haa  u 
judicdoualy  mingled  with  them. 


Others  nparl  aol  on  s  hill  retired, 
In  thoughii  more  elevntc.  and  teasoned  high 
Of  i'rovidMJCB,  (urekoawlodge,  will,  and  ifale, 
Pliv  file,  freewill,  foreknowledge  absolute. 
And  found  no  end,  in  wandaring  mazes  lost. 

Li  our  present  condition,  which  is  a  middle  state,  ow 
mtudR  aro.  as  it  were,  chequered  with  truth  and  falsehood ; 
and  lU  our  faculties  are  narrow,  and  our  views  imperfect,  it 
is  inipoBsiblo  hut  our  curiosity  must  meet  with  many  repulseB. 
Tho  businewt  of  mankind  in  this  life  being  rather  to  act 
than  to  know,  their  portion  of  knowledgo  is  dealt  to  them 
Bocordiusly.  -  .  .     , 

From  henco  it  is,  that  the  reason  of  the  inquisitive  has  so 
loD«  betui  exercised  with  difficulties,  in  accounting  for  the 
pnum.oumis  distribution  of  good  and  evil  to  the  virtuous  and 
&»p  wicked  in  this  world.  From  hence  come  ail  tho^  Pf" 
Srti«l  oomplaiHic  of  so  many  tnigicaJ  events,  which  happen 
IJVho  Wis.'  and  Ih.  good ;  and  of  such  surpnsmg  F^^P^g 
-kU^  il  ofton  thp  Aard  of  the  guiltv  and  the  fooliah ;  that 
;2;«  1^.iHil:;;s  p^cd,  and  T.  U  what  to  pronounce 


JKK^4  on  the  «ods  as  the  authors  of  mjustioe 
'**?^!^  ImVS  a  Srinoipl«.  that  whatever  is  pcmutted 
•^JS.C\^«  whether  poverty,  sickness,  or  anv  of 
^tV^^S^^WhJm  to  be  evils,  shaU  either  m  Id^e  or 

►  »»*IP 


good.  My  reader  will  obserre  how 
is  to  what  we  find  delivered  by  a 
greater  authority.  Seneca  has  written  a  disconrne  purposely 
on  this  subject,  in  which  h^  takea  pains,  after  the  doctrine  of 
the  Stoics,  to  show  that  adversity  ia  not  in- itself  an  evil; 
.and  mentions  a  notable  saying  of  Demetrius,  "  That  nothing 
would  be  more  unhappy  than  a  man  who  had  never  known 
affliction."  He  compares  prosperity  to  the  indulgence  of  a 
fond  mother  to  a  child,  which  often  proves  his  ruin ;  but 
the  affection  of  the  Divine  Being  to  that  of  a  wise  fiither, 
;who  would  have  hia  sons  exercised  with  labour,  disappoint- 
jnent,  and  pain,  that  they  may  gather  atrengtb,  and  improve 
their  fortitude.  On  this  occasion  the  philosopher  rises  into 
that  celebrated  sentiment,  "  Tliat  there  is  not  on  earth  a 
epectacle  more  worthy  the  regard  of  a  Creator  intent  on  hie 
"Vrorks,  than  a  brave  man  superior  to  his  sufferings;"  to 
which  he  adds,  "  That  it  must  be  a  pleasure  to  Jupiter  him- 
self to  look  down  from  heaven,  and  see  Cato  amidst  the  ruins 
of  his  country  preserving  his  integrity." 

This  thought  will  appear  yet  more  reasonable,  if  we  con- 
eider  human  life  as  a  state  of  probation,  a^4  adversity  as  the 
post  of  honom'  in  it,  assigned  often  to  th>i.  best  and  moat  se- 
lect spirits. 

But  what  I  would  chiefly  insist  upon  here,  is,  that  we  are 
not  at  present  in  a  proper  situation  to  judge  of  the  counsels 
by  which  Providence  acts,  since  but  little  arrives  at  our 
knowledge,  and  even  that  little  we  discern  imperfectly  ;  or, 
according  to  the  elegant  figure  in  holy  writ,  "  We  see  but 
in  part,  and  aa  in  a  glass  darkly."  It  is  to  be  considered 
that  Providence,  in  its  ceconomy,  regards  the  whole  system 

"  time  and  things  together,  so  that  we  cannot  discover  the 
beautiful  conneiionB  between  incidents  which  lie  widely 
separated  in  time,  and  by  losing  so  many  links  of  the  chain 
our  reasonings  become  broken  and  imperfect.  Thus  those 
parts  in  the  moral  world  which  have  not  an  absolute,  may 
yet  have  a  relative  beauty,  in  respect  of  some  other  parts 
Ooncealed  from  us,  but  open  to  His  eyes  before  whom  "  past, 
present,"  and  "to  come,"  are  set  together  in  one  point  of 
■view ;  and  those  events,  the  permission  of  which  seema  now 
to  accuse  His  goodness,  may,  in  the  consummation  of  things, 
both  magnify  hia  goodness  and  exalt  hia  wisdom.  And  this 
U  enou^  to  check  our  presumption,  since  it  ia  in  vain  to 


Kpply  oiir  meaaures  of  regularity  to  matters  of  wHcli 
know  ueitlier  the  antecedents  nur  the  conaeq^uenta,  the 
ginning  nor  tiie  end. 

I  shidl  relieve  my  readers  from  this  abstracted  thought, 
relating  here  a  Jewish  tradition  concerning  Moeea,  whi 
seems  to  he  a  kind  of  parable,  illuatnitiug  what  I  have  I 
mentioned.     That  great  prophet,  it  is  said,  was  called  uji  , 
a  voice  from  heaven  to  the  top  of  a  mountain  ;  where,  in 
conference  with  the    Supreme  Being,  he  was  permitted  U 
propose  to  him  some  questions  concerning  hia  administratioi 
of  the  universe.     In  the  midst  of  this  divine  eolloqny  ha 
commanded  to  look  down  on  the  plain  helow.     At  the  . 
of  the  mountain  there  issued  out  a  clear  spring  of  water,  s 
which  a  soldier  alighted  from  hia  horse  to  drink.     He  was  lU 
sooner  gone,  than  a  little  toy  came  to  the  same  place,  aiu 
finding  a  purse  of  gold,  which  the  soldier  had  dropped,  tod 
it  up,   and  went   away   with    it.     Immediately  alter  thiill 
came  on  infirm  old  man,  weary  with  age  and  travelling,  an^ 
having  quenched  hia  thirst,  sat  down  to  rest  himself  by  tl 
side  of  the  spring.     The  soldier,  missing  hia  purse,  returns  ■_ 
search  for  it,  and  demands  it  of  the  old  man,  who  affirms  Itf 
had  not  seen  it,  and  appeals  to  heaven  in  witness  of  his  iimoi 
cence.     The  soldier,  not  believing  hia  protestations,  kills  him 
Mosea  fell  on  his  face  with  horror  and  amazement,  when  thrf 
Divine  Voice  thus  prevented  his  espoatulation ;  "Be  not  80;^ 
prised,  Moaea,  nor  ask  why  the  Judge  of  the  whole  earth  hi 
suffered  this  thing  to  come  to  pass :  the  child  ia  the  occasion 
tliat  the  blood  of  the  old  man  is  apUt ;  but  know,  that  thv 
old  man  whom  thou  saweat,  was  the  murderer  of  that  child**: 

e  fool 

No.  239.     TUESDAY,  DECEMBEE  4. 

— BellB,  horrlda  bella  i     Virq. 

I  HATB  sometimes  amused  myaelf  with  considering  thfl 
several  methods  of  managing  a  debate,  which  have  obtained 
in  the  world. 

The  first  races  of  mankind  used  to  dispute,  as  our  ordinary 
people  do  now-a-daya,  in  a  kind  of  wild  logic,  uncultivateq 
oy  rules  of  art. 

Socrates  introduced  a  catechetical  method  of  argu-og. 

He  would  nak  his  adversary  question  upon  queation,  till  he 
bad  convinced  him  out  of  liia  own  mouth  that  his  opinions 
were  irrong.  This  way  of  debating  drives  an  enemy  up  into 
a  comer,  seizes  all  the  paseea  through  which  he  can  make  an 
escape,  and  forces  him  to  surrender  at  discretion. 

Aristotle  changed  this  method  of  attack,  and  invented  a 
great  variety  of  little  weapons,  called  syllogisms.  Aa  in  the 
Socratic  way  of  dispute  you  agree  to  everything  which  your 
opponent  advaQces,  in  the  Ariatottlic  you  are  still  denying 
ana  eontradicting  some  part  or  other  of  what  he  says. 
Socrates  conquers  you  by  stratagem ;  Aristotle  by  force ; 
the  one  takes  the  town  by  sap,  the  other  sword  in  hand. 

The  universities  of  Europe,  for  many  years,  carried  on 
their  debates  by  syllogism,  insomuch  that  we  see  the  know- 
ledge of  several  eentunes  laid  out  into  objections  and  answers, 
and  all  the  good  sense  of  t)ie  age  cut  and  minced  into  almost 
on  infinitude  of  diatinctiona. 

When  our  universities  found  that  there  was  no  end  of 
wrangling  this  way,  they  invented  a  kind  of  argument,  which 
ia  not  reducible  to  any  mood  or  figure  of  Aristotle.  It  waa 
called  the  Argumentian  Basilinutn,  (others  write  it  BaciUnitm 
or  Baculinum,)  which  ia  pretty  well  expressed  in  our  Eng- 
lish word  "  club-law."  When  they  were  not  able  to  confute 
their  antagonist,  they  knocked  him  down.  It  was  their 
method,  in  these  polemical  debates,  first  to  discharge  their 
Byllogisma,  and  afterwards  to  betake  tbemselvea  to  their  clubs, 
till  such  time  as  they  had  one  way  or  other  confounded  their 
gainsayers.  There  is  in  Oiford  a.  narrow  defile,  (to  make 
oae  of  a  military  term,)  where  the  parliBana  used  to  encoun- 
ter, for  which  reason  it  still  retains  the  name  of  "  Logic  Lane.' ' 
I  have  heaj^  an  old  gentleman,  a  physician,  make  his  boasts, 
that  when  he  was  a  yoiing  fellow,  he  marched  several  times 
at  the  head  of  a  troop  of  Scotists,  and  cudgelled  a  body  of 
Smigleaiana  half  the  length  of  High  Street,  till  they  had  dis- 
persed themaelves  for  ahelter  into  their  respective  garriaona. 

This  humour,  I  find,  went  very  far  in  Erasmus' a  time.  For 
that  author  tella  ua,  that  upon  the  revival  of  &reek  letters, 
most  of  the  universities  in  Europe  were  divided  into  Greeks 
and  Trojans.  The  latter  were  those  who  bore  a  mortal 
hatred  to  the  language  of  the  Grecians,  insomuch  that  if 
th^  met  with  any  who  understood  it,  they  did  not  fail  to  treat 

him  as  a  foe.  Erasmus  himself  had.  it  seems,  tliemisfoi 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  part^  of  Trojans,  who  laid  him 
■with  80  many  bloTS  and  buffets,  that  he  never  forgot  tl 
hostilities  to  his  dying  day. 

There  ia  a  way  of  maaaging  an  argument  not  much  unli 
the  former,  which  ia  made  use  of  by  states  and  eommuiijti) 
when  they  draw  up  a  hundred  thouBand  disputauta 
side,  and  convince  one  anotlier  by  dint  of  sword,  A  certain 
grand  monarch  was  so  sensible  of  his  strength  in  this  way  of 
reasoning,  that  he  writ  upon  hia  great  guna — Ratio  ultima 
Regum,  "  The  Logic  of  Kings  ;"  but,  God  be  thanked,  he  ia 
now  pretty  well  bafRed  at  his  own  weapons.  When  one  has 
to  do  with  a  philosopher  of  this  kind,  one  should  remember 
the  old  gentleman's  saying,  who  had  been  engaged  in  an 
argument  with  one  of  the  Homan  emperors.  Upon  his 
friend's  telling  him,  that  he  wondered  he  would  give  up  the 
question,  when  he  had  visibly  the  better  of  the  dispute,  ''  "^ 
am  never  ashamed  (says  he)  to  be  confuted  by  one  who 
master  of  fifty  legiona." 

I  shall  hut  just  mention  another  kind  of  reasoning,  whi( 
may  be  called  argumg  hy  poll ;  and  another,  which  is  of  equ 
force,  in  which  wagera  are  made  use  of  as  arguments,  accord- 
ing to  the  celebrated  line  in  Hudibras. 

But  the  moat  notable  way  of  managing  a  controTcray,  is 
that  which  we  call  "  Arguing  by  torture,"  This  is  a  method 
of  reasoning  which  has  been  made  use  of  with  the  poor  re- 
fugees, and  which  was  so  fashionable  in  our  country  during 
thereignof  Queen  Mary,  that  in  a  passage  of  an  author  quoted 
hy  Monsieur  Bayle,  it  la  said,  the  price  of  wood  was  raised  in 
Eiigland  hy  reason  of  the  executions  that  were  made  in 
Smithfield.  These  disputants  convince  their  adversaries  with 
B  loriCes,  commonly  called  a  pile  of  faggots.  The  rack  is  also 
a  kind  of  ayllogism  which  has  been  used  with  good  efiect, 
and  has  made  multitudes  of  converts.  Men  were  formerly 
disputed  out  of  their  doubts,  reconciled  to  truth  by  force  of 
reason,  and  won  over  to  opinions  by  the  candour,  sense,  and 
ingenuity  of  those  who  had  the  right  on  their  side ;  but  this 
method  of  conviction  operated  too  slowly.  Pain  was  found 
to  be  much  more  enlightening  than  reason.  Every  scrupla 
was  looked  upon  as  ohatinacy,  and  not  to  be  removed  but  by 
uevcral  engines  invented  for  that  purpose.      In  a  word,  the 


"^O.  Ml.  XHE   BPSOTATOB.  188 

application  of  whipa,  racks,  gibbeta,  galleys,  dungeons,  fire 
and  faggot  in  a  dispute,  may  be  looked  upon  as  popish  re- 
finements upon  the  old  heathen  logic. 

There  ia  another  way  of  reasoning  which  seldom  fails, 
though  it  he  of  a  quite  different  nature  to  that  I  have  last 
mentioned.  I  mean,  conyincing  a  man  hy  ready  money,  or, 
B8  it  is  ordinarily  called,  bribing  a  man  to  an  opinion.  Thia 
method  has  often  proved  successiul,  when  all  the  other 

been  made  use  of  to  no  purpose.  A  man  who  ia  furnished 
with  arguments  from  the  mmt,  will  convince  the  antagonist 
much  sooner  than  one  who  draws  theoi  from  reason  and  phi- 
losophy. Gold  is  a  wonderful  clearer  of  the  understanding ; 
it  dissipates  every  doubt  and  scruple  in  an  instant;  accom- 
modates itself  to  the  meanest  capacities  :  silences  the  loud 
and  clamorous,  and  brings  over  the  most  obstinate  and  in- 
flexible. Philip  of  Maeedon  was  a  man  of  most  invincible 
reason  this  way.  He  refuted  by  it  all  the  wisdom  of  Athens, 
confounded  their  statesmen,  struck  their  orators  dumb,  and 
at  length  argued  them  out  of  all  their  liberties. 

Having  here  touched  upon  the  several  methods  of  dis- 

?uting,  aa  they  have  prevailed  in  different  ages  of  the  world, 
shall  very  suddenly  give  my  reader  an  account  of  the 
whole  art  of  cavilling ;  which  shall  he  a  fuU  satisfactory 
answer  to  idl  such  papers  and  pamphlets  as  have  yet  appeared 
against  the  Spectator. 

No.  241.    THTJE8DAT,  DECEMBEE  ( 

"Mh.  Spectatoe, 

Though  you  have  considered  virtuous  lov 
of  its  distresBes,  I  do  not  remember  that  you  have  given  ua 
any  dissertation  upon  the  absence  of  lovers,  or  laid  down  any 
methods  how  they  should  support  themselves  under  those 
long  separations  which  they  are  sometimes  forced  to  undergo. 
I  am  at  present  in  this  unhappy  circumstance,  having  parted 

with  the  best  of  husbands,  who  is  abroad  in  the  servi " 

' ' )  country,  and  may  not  possibly  return  for  some  j 


Hjb  warm  and  generous  offection  while  we  were  togetlK 
with  the  tenderness  which  he  expressed  to  me  at  {nrtin 
make  his  absence  almost  insupportable.  I  think  of  hi 
every  moment  of  the  day,  and  meet  him  everr  night  in  n 
dreams.  Everythbg  I  see  puts  me  in  mind  ot  him.  I  appi 
myself  with  more  than  ordmary  diligence  to  the  f-are  of  li 
family  and  e-stnte ;  but  this,  instead  of  relieving  me,  | ' 
hut  so  many  occasions  of  wishing  for  his  return.  I  i 
the  rooms  where  I  used  to  converse  with  him,  ajid  not  n 
ing  him  there,  ait  down  in  his  chair,  and  fall  a  weeping. 
love  to  read  the  books  he  delighted  in,  and  to  converse  wf 
the  persons  whom  he  esteemed.  I  visit  his  picture  a  hundi 
times  a  day,  and  place  myself  over-against  it  whole  hoi 
pether.  1  pass  a  great  part  of  my  time  in  the  walks  w' 
used  to  lean  upon  his  arm,  and  recollect  in  my  mind  tl 
courses  which  have  there  passed  between  ua :  I  look  over  thl 
severa!  prospects  and  points  of  view  which  we  used  to  sur  "" 
together,  fii  my  eye  upon  the  objects  which  he  has  made 
take  notice  of,  and  call  to  mind  a  thousand  agreeable  rema 
which  he  has  made  on  those  occasions.  I  write  to  him  b 
every  conveyance,  and,  contrary  to  other  people,  t 
in  good  humour  when  an  east  wind  blows,  because  it  seldom 
fails  of  bringing  me  a  letter  from  him.  Let  me  entreat  you, 
sir,  to  give  me  your  advice  upon  this  occasion,  and  to  let  me 
know  how  I  may  relieve  myself  in  this  my  widowhood, 

"  I  am,  sir,  your  most  humble  servant, 

"  Abtekia.'JI 

Absence  is  what  the  poets  call  death  in  love,  and  has  given  ' 
occasion  to  abundance  of  beautiful  complaints  in  those  au- 
thors who  have  treated  of  this  passion  in  verse.      Ovid's 
Epistles  are  full  of  tliem.     Otway's  Monimia  talks  very  ten- 
derly upon  this  subject. 

—It  was  not  kind 
Td  leave  me,  like  a.  turtle,  Iiere  alone. 
To  droop,  [uid  mourn  the  nbaence  of  my  mate. 
When  thou  art  from  me,  ever j  plnce  is  desarl : 
And  I  methinks  sm  savage  and  forlorn. 
Thy  presence  only  'tis  can  moke  me  blessed. 
Heal  my  unquiat  mind,  and  tone  my  bouL. 

The  consolations  of  lovers  on  these  occasions  are  very  ex>  ' 
traordinary.     Besides  those  mentioned  by  Asteria,  there  an 





(  ol  oy 

IT^O.  941.  T 

nuny  other  motivea  of  comfort,  whicb  are  made  i 
absent  lovers. 

I  remember  in  one  of  Seuderr'a  Eomanoes,  a  couple  of 
honourable  lovers  agreed  at  their  parting  to  set  aaiae  one 
half  hour  in  the  day  to  think  of  each  other  during  a  tediouB 
ahBeuce.  The  romance  tells  us,  that  they  both  of  them  pimo- 
tually  observed  the  time  thua  agreed  upon ;  and  that  what- 
ever company  or  buBinees  they  were  engaged  in,  they  left 
it  abruptly  as  soon  as  the  clock  warned  them  to  retire.  The 
romance  further  adds,  that  the  lovers  eipected  the  return  of 
this  stated  hour  n-ith  as  much  impatience  aa  if  it  had  been  a 
real  assignation,  and  enjoyed  an  imaginary  happtneBS  that 
was  almost  aa  pleasing  to  them  as  what  they  wouldnave  found 
from  a  real  meeting.  It  was  an  inexpressible  satisfaction  to 
these  divided  lovers,  to  be  assured  that  each  was  at  the  same 
time  employed  in  the  same  kind  of  contemplation,  and  mak- 
ing equal  returns  of  tendemesa  and  affection. 

If  I  may  be  allowed  to  mention  a  more  serious  eipedient 
for  the  alleviating  of  absence,  I  shall  take  notice  of  one 
which  I  have  known  two  persons  practise,  who  joined  re- 
ligion to  that  elegance  of  sentiraenta  with  which  the  paasiori 
of  love  generally  inspires  its  votaries.  This  was,  at  the  re- 
turn of  such  an  hour,  to  offer  up  a  certain  prayer  for  each 
other,  which  they  had  agreed  upon  before  their  parting. 
The  husband,  who  is  a  man  that  makes  a  figure  in  the  polite 
world,  as  well  as  in  his  own  lamily,  has  often  told  me,  that  he 
could  not  have  supported  an  absence  of  three  years  without 
this  expedient. 

Strada,  in  one  of  hia  prolusions,  gives  an  account  of  a  chi- 
merical correspondence  oetween  two  friends  by  the  help  of  a 
certain  loadstone,  which  had  such  a  virtue  in  it,  that  if  it 
touched  two  several  needles,  when  one  of  the  needles  so 
touched  began  to  move,  the  other,  though  at  never  so  great 
a  distance,  moved  at  the  same  time  and  in  the  same  manner. 
He  tells  us  that  the  two  friends,  being  each  of  them  possess- 
ed of  one  of  these  needles,  made  a  kind  of  dial-plate,  inscrib- 
ing it  with  the  four-and-twenty  letters,  in  the  same  manner 
m  the  hours  of  the  day  are  marked  upon  the  ordinary  dial- 
ptate.  They  then  fixed  one  of  the  needles  on  each  ot  these 
plates  in  such  a  manner,  that  it  could  move  round  without 
impediment,  so  aa  to  touch  an^  of  the  four-and-twenty  I 
ien.     Upon  their  separating  from  ob'^  another  iotQ  dviAf 


f  i36  AttDlkUS  '.    WOKEa. 

MfiintriiM,  th^  agreed  to  n-itMraw  theoudrea 
illtd  their  ciotets  at  »  cerUJii  Lour  of  the  d«y, ; 
y/erae  with  one  anotlier  by  meaiu  of  thia  their  inre 
ordingly,  whra  tli«y  were  nome  hundred  miles  asunder, 
uf  thtnii  ahut  liiiDMAr  up  in  hia  closet  at  the  time 
luid  imuuidiMitly  out  hu  eye  upon  his  dial-plate, 
a  mind  to  write  uiytliing  to  hi»  friend,  he  directed  hi* 
iwnllu  to  every  liKtcr  that  form^  the  words  which  he  had 
u&auiiim  tor,  lu'akinj;;  a  little  pause  at  the  end  of  every  word  or 
lM.'iit«iiC(t,  tu  avoid  confimion.  The  fiiend,  in  the  met 
Mtw  hill  own  Hympnthetii!  needle  nioving  of  it«elf  to  eveiy 
ter  which  that  of  his  correspondent  pointed  at.  By  tl 
miiiuiH  they  tulked  together  m;ro8»  a  whole  continent, 
CMKivityiid  their  thoughts  to  one  another  In  an  instant, 
eiLi<!a  or  mountains,  teati  or  desertM. 

If  Mciiiwicur  Syudory,  or  any  other  writer  of  romance. 
iiilrndiii^ud  u  necroiiiaucer,  who  ia  generally  in  the  train  of .. 
ktiight-errunt,  making  a  present  to  two  lovere  of  a  couple  of 
thopio  nhovc-nii>ntioiiod  nijodles,  the  reoder  would  not  have 
liwii  A  lillli!  pleased  to  have  seen  them  corresponding  with 
(ino  anol  hi'r  whi<n  they  were  cuordod  hy  spies  and  watches, 
iir  »c|iarjili'il  by  cfwtltis  and  adventures. 

Ill  l.hi'  iiii'iin  while,  if  ever  this  invention  should  be  re  vii 
111- iimI.  ill  |>['iiuticA  I  would  propose,  that  upon  the  lover*! 
iliiil-|ilrilii   thopii   should  bo  written  not  onlv  the  four-axu" 
Iwriii.j  li'tUnit.  but  sBvtiral  entire  words  which  have  always 
|iIhii'  III  imBiioiititc  opistlos,  as  Jlamti,  darts,  die,  languish, 
iihi'riie«,  (.'iifiitl,  hvarL,  eyes,  hang,  drown,  and  the  like,     This 
>\iiiil(l  viTv  luiKsh  abridge  tho  lover's  pains  in  this  way  of 
writing  ali'ttor,  us  it  would  enable  him  to  express  the  m 
lUtel^il  anil  «igniIloimt  words  with  n  single  touch  of  the  neec 


No.  24a.    SATITEDAT,  DECEMBER  8. 

Fwmim  quiUnn  iliuin,  Mftroo  lUi,  ut  liuiqu>ni  Tiiciam  bonrali  vidwiJ 

I  1)0  not  ri-menibcr  to  have  read  aiii 
prennW  \ipon  tlw  beauty  unil  lnvelitu 
«uu»i<ieriii);  it  as  a  duty,  untl  ta  tho 

written  e 
irtiie,  withov 

of   ni»fci-^g  <f 


Tiappy  both  now  and  hereafter.  I  design,  therefore,  thiaspecu- 
latton  Bs  an  essay  upon  that  euhject,  in  which  I  shall  con- 
sider Tirtue  no  further  than  as  it  ia  in  itself  of  an  amiable 
nature,  after  having  premised,  that  I  understand  by  the 
■wnrd  virtue  such  a  eeneraJ  iiotion  aa  is  affixed  to  it  by  the 
17Tit'"Ta  Qt'moraucv,  and  which  by  devout  men  generally  goes 
■under  the  name  of  religion,  and  by  raea  of  the  world  under 

Hypocrisy  itself  doea  great  honour,  or  rather  justice,  to 
religion,  and  tacitly  acknowledges  it  to  be  an  ornament  to 
human  nature.  The  hypocrite  would  not  be  at  so  much 
pains  to  put  on  the  appearance  of  virtue,  if  he  did  not  know 
it  was  the  must  proper  and  effectual  means  to  gain  the  love 
and  eateem  of  manland. 

We  learn  from  Hierocles  it  waa  a  common  aaying  among 
the  heathens,  that  the  wise  num  hates  nobody,  but  only 
loves  the  virtuous. 

Tully  Laa  a  very  beautiful  gradation  of  thoughts,  to  show 
tow  amiable  virtue  ia.  We  love  a  virtuoua  man,  aaya  he, 
,fho  Uvea  in  the  remotest  parts  of  the  earth,  though  we  are 
altogether  out  of  the  reach  of  his  virtue,  and  can  receive 
from  it  no  manner  of  benefit ;  nay,  one  who  died  several 
years  ago  raises  a  secret  fondneaa  and  benevolence  for  him 
m  our  minds,  when  we  read  his  atory :  nay,  what  is  still 
more,  one  who  has  been  the  enemy  of  our  country,  provided 
bia  wars  were  regulated  by  justice  and  humanity,  aa  in  the 
instance  of  Pyrrbua,  whom  Tully  mentions  on  this  occasion 
in  opposition  to  Hannibal.  Such  is  the  natural  beauty  and 
lovelineaa  of  virtue. 

Stoicism,  which  was  the  pedantry  of  virtue,  ascribes  all 
good  qualiflcatiooa  of  what  Ituid  soever  to  the  virtuous  man. 
Accordingly  Cato,  in  the  character  Tully  has  left  of  him, 
carried  matters  ao  far  that  he  would  not  allow  any  one  but 
a  virtnous  man  to  be  handsome.  This  indeed  looks  more 
like  a  philosophical  rant  than  the  real  opfnion  of  a  wiao 
man;  yet  this  was  what  Cato  very  seriously  maintained. 
In  short,  the  Stoics  thought  they  could  not  sufficiently  re- 
present the  excellence  of  virtue,  if  they  did  not  comprehend 
in  the  notion  of  it  all  possible  perfection ;  and  therefore  did 
liot  only  suppose  that  it  was  transcendently  beautiful  in  it^ 
»el^  but  that  it  made  the  very  body  amiable,  and  banished 
mrery  kind  of  deformity  from  the  person  in  whom  it  resided. 

138  ■  ADDisos'a  wottKs. 

It  ia  n.  common  obsien'ation,  that  the  most  abandoned  | 
all  sense  and  goodneas  nre  apt  to  wish  those  who  a: 
to  them  of  a  different  character ;  and  it  is  veiy  ob8e__ 
able,  that  none  are  more  atruck  with  the  charniB  of  rirtuefl 
the  fair  set,  than  those  who  by  their  very  admiration  of  S 
are  carried  to  a  desire  of  ruining  it. 

A  virtuous  mind  in  a  fair  body  is  indeed  a  fine  picture  i 
a  good  light,  and  therefore  it  is  no  wonder  that  it  makes  tT 
beautiful  sex  all  over  charms. 

Aa  virtue  in  general  ia  of  an  amiable  and  lovely  i 
there  are  some  particular  kinda  of  it  which  are  more  ao  than 
others,  and  these  are  such  as  diapoao  us  to  do  good  to  man- 
kind. Temperance  and  abstinence,  faith  and  devotion,  are 
in  themselves  perhaps  as  laudable  as  any  other  virtues ;  but 
those  which  make  a  man  popular  and  beloved  are  justice, 
charity,  munificence,  and  in  short  all  the  qualifications  that 
render  ua  beneficial  to  each  other.  For  which  reason  even 
an  extravagant  man,  who  haa  nothing  else  to  recommend 
him  but  a  false  generosity,  is  often  more  beloved  and  esteem- 
ed than  a  person  of  a  much  more  finished  character,  who  is 
defective  in  this  particular. 

The  two  great  ornaments  of  virtue,  which  show  her  in  the 
most  advantageous  views,  and  make  her  altogether  lovely, 
are  cheerfulness  and  good  nature.  These  gcner^y  go  to- 
gether, as  a  man  cannot  he  agreeable  to  others  who  is  not 
easy  within  himself.  They  are  both  very  req^uisite  in  a  vir- 
tuous mind,  to  keep  out  melancholy  from  the  many  serious 
thoughts  it  is  engaged  in,  and  to  hinder  its  natural  hatred  of 
vice  from  souring  into  severity  and  cenaoriousnesa. 

If  virtue  is  ot  this  amiable  nature,  what  can  we  think  of 
those  who  can  look  upon  it  with  an  eye  of  hatred  and  ill- 
wiU,  or  can  suffer  their  aversion  for  a  party  to  blot  out  all 
the  merit  of  the  person  who  is  engaged  in  it.  A  man  must 
be  esceasively  stupid,  as  well  as  uncharitable,  who  believea 
that  there  is  no  virtue  but  on  his  own  side,  and  that  there 
are  not  men  as  honest  as  hiraself  who  may  differ  from  bim  in 
political  principles.  Men  may  oppose  one  another  in  some 
particulars,  but  ought  not  to  carry  their  hatred  to  those 
qualities  which  are  of  ao  amiable  a  nature  in  themselves,  and 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  points  in  dispute.  Men  of  vir- 
tue, though  of  different  interests,  ought  to  consider  them- 
selvea  as  more  nearly  united  ivith  one  another  than  with  the 

TiciouB  part  of  mankind,  who  emtark  with  them  in  the  same 
ravil  concerns.  We  sliould  bear  the  same  love  towarda  a  man 
of  honaur,  who  is  a  living  antagonist,  which,  TuUj  tella  ua 
in  the  forementioned  passage,  every  one  naturally  does  to  an 
enemy  that  is  dead.  In  short,  we  should  esteem  virtue 
though  in  a  foe,  and  ahhor  vice  though  in  a  friend. 

I  speak  this  with  an  eye  to  those  cruel  treatments  which 
men  of  aJl  aides  are  apt  to  give  the  characters  of  those  vrho 
do  not  agree  with  them.  How  many  persona  of  undoubted 
probity  and  exemplary  virtue,  on  either  aide,  are  blackened 
and  defamed !  How  many  men  of  honour  exposed  to  public 
obloquy  and  reproach !  Those,  therefore,  who  are  either  the 
instruments  or  abettors  in  such  infernal  dealings,  ought  to 
be  looked  upon  as  persons  who  make  use  of  religion  to  pro- 
.mote  their  cause,  not  of  their  cause  to  promote  rehgion. 

No.  245.     TUESDAY,  DECEMBER  11. 

Ficta  Toluptalia  amsH  aint  proxima  veils.  Hon. 
Tke^e  is  nothing  which  one  regards  so  much  with  an  eye 
of  mirth  and  pity,  as  innocence  when  it  baa  in  it  a  dash  of 
folly.  At  the  same  time  that  one  esteems  the  virtue,  one  is 
tempted  to  laugh  at  the  simplici^  which  accompanies  it. 
"When  a  man  is  made  up  wholly  of  the  dove,  without  the  least 
erain  of  the  serpent  in  his  composition,  he  hecomea  ridiculous 
m  many  circumstances  of  life,  and  very  often  discredits  hia 
heat  actions.  The  Cordeliers  tell  a  story  of  their  founder 
8t.  Frauds,  that  as  he  passed  the  streets  m  the  dusk  of  the 
evening,  he  discovered  a  young  fellow  with  a  maid  in  a  cor- 
ner; upon  which  the  good  man,  say  thev,  lifted  up  his  hands 
to  heaven  with  a  secret  thanksgiving,  that  there  was  still  so 
much  Christian  charity  in  the  world.  Tlie  innocence  of  the 
saint  made  him  mistake  the  kiaa  of  a  lover  for  a  salute  of 
charity.  I  am  heartily  concerned  when  I  see  a  virtuous 
nan  without  a  competent  knowledge  of  the  world;  and  if 
Ihere  he  any  use  in  these  my  papers,  it  is  this,  that  without 
leppesenting  vice  under  any  false  alluring  notions,  they  give 

Sy  reader  an  insight  into  the  w^s  of  men,  and  represent 
iman  nature  in  all  its  changeable  colours.     The  man  whc 
not  been  engaged  in  any  of  the  follies  of  the  world,  &i. 


aa  SLakspsitre  exprtssea  it,  "  liaoTtneyed  in  the  ways  of 
may  here  find  a  picture  of  its  follies  aud  extra vafjancea 
virtuous  and  the  innocent  may  know  in  speculation  what 
they  could  never  arrive  at  by  practice,  ana  by  this  meaas 
avoid  the  snare  of  the  crafty,  the  corruptions  of  the  vicious, 
and  the  reasonings  of  the  prejudiced.  Their  minds  may  be 
opened  without  being  vitiated. 

It  ie  with  an  eve  to  my  following  correspondent,  Mr. 
Timothy  Doodle,  who  seems  a  very  well-meaning  man,  that 
I  have  written  this  short  preface,  to  which  1  shall  aubji  ' 
letter  from  the  said  Mr.  Doodle, 



I  could  heartily  wish  that  you  would  let  iia  knowyoi 
opinion  upon  several  innocent  Aversions  which  are  in  use 
among  us,  and  which  are  very  proper  to  pass  away  a  winter 
night  for  those  who  do  not  care  to  throw  away  their  time  at 
an  opera  or  at  the  play-house.  I  would  gladly  know  in  par- 
ticular what  notion  you  have  of  hot-cockles  ;  aa  also  whether 
you  think  that  questions  and  commands,  mottoes,  eimilies,  and 
crosa  purposea,  have  not  more  mirth  aud  wit  in  them  than 
those  public  diversions  which  are  grown  so  very  fashion- 
able among  us.  If  you  would  recommend  to  our  wives  and 
daughters,  who  read  your  papers  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure, 
some  of  those  sports  and  pastimes  that  may  he  practised 
within  doora,  and  by  the  fire-side,  we  who  are  masters  of  fami- 
lies should  be  hugely  obliged  to  you.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  I  would  have  these  sporta  and  pastimes  not  only  merry 
but  innocent,  for  which  reason  I  have  not  mentioned  either 
whisk  or  lanterloo,  nor  indeed  so  much  as  one  and  thirty. 
After  having  communicated  to  you  my  request  upon  this  sub- 
ject,! will  be  so  tree  aa  to  tell  you  how  my  wife  and  I  pass 
away  these  tedious  winter  evenings  with  a  great  deiu  of 
pleasure.  Though  she  be  young,  and  handsome,  and  good- 
humoured  to  a  miracle,  she  does  not  care  for  gadding  abroad 
like  othera  of  her  ses.  There  ia  a  very  friendly  man,  a  colo- 
nel in  the  army,  whom  I  am  mightily  obliged  to  for  his  civil- 
ities, that  comes  to  aee  me  almost  every  night ;  for  he  ia  not 
one  of  those  giddy  young  fellows  that  cannot  live  out  of  a 
play-house.     When  we  are  together,  we  very  often  make  a 

Earty  at  blind-m  an 's-bufi;  which  ia  a  sport  I  like  the  better, 
ecause  there  ia  a  good  deal  of  exercise  in  it.    Thu  colon'jl 

and  I  are  blinded  by  turns,  and  you  would  laugh  your  liRart 
out  to  Bee  what  pains  my  dear  takes  to  hoodwink,  ua,  so  that 
t  IB  imposBible  for  us  to  see  the  least  glimpse  of  light.  The 
toor  colonel  sometimes  hite  hia  nose  agiiinst  a  poet,  and 
imates  UH  die  with  laughing.  I  have  generally  the  good  luck  not 
to  hurt  mj-aell",  but  am  very  often  above  half  aa  hour  before 
I  can  catch  either  of  them  ;  for  you  must  know  we  hide  our- 
teLrea  up  and  down  in  comers,  that  we  may  have  the  more 
ftport.  I  only  give  you  this  hint  as  a  sample  of  such  iirno- 
t  diversions  as  I  would  have  you  recommend  ;  and  am, 
"  Moat  esteemed  sir, 

Tour  ever  loving  friend, 

"TlMOTHT  DoonLE." 

The  following  letter  was  occasioned  by  my  last  Thursday's 
laper  upon  the  absence  of  lovers,  and  the  methods  therein 
mentioned  of  making  auch  absence  supportable. 

jnong  the  several  ways  of  consolation  which  absent 
overs  make  use  of  while  their  souls  are  in  that  state  of  de- 
i  which  you  aay  is  death  in  love,  there  are  some  very 
aaterial  ones  tliat  have  escaped  your  notice.  Among  these, 
he  first  and  most  received  is  a  crooked  ahilUng,  which  has  ad- 
inistered  great  comfort  to  our  fore&thers,  and  is  still  made 
le  of  on  this  occasion  with  very  good  effect  iu  most  parts  of 
IT  Majesty's  dominions.  There  are  some,  1  know,  who  think 
I  crown  piece  cut  into  two  equal  parts,  and  preserved  by  the 
latant  lovers,  is  of  more  sovereign  virtue  than  the  former. 
hit  since  opinions  are  divided  in  tliia  particular,  why  may  not 
ae  same  persona  make  use  of  both  ?  The  figure  of  a  heart, 
■hether  cut  in  stone  or  east  in  metal,  whether  bleeding  upon 
a  altar,  stuck  with  darts,  or  held  in  the  hand  of  a  Cupid,  has 
[waya  been  looked  upon  as  talismanic  in  distrosaea  of  this  na- 
ire.  I  am  acquainted  with  many  a  brave  fellow,  who  carries 
is  mistress  in  the  lid  of  his  snuff-box,  and  by  that  experience 
MBupportedhimself  undertheabaence  of  a  whole  campaign. 
or  my  own  part,  I  have  tried  all  these  remedies,  but  never 
lund  so  mucQ  benefit  from  any  as  from  a  ring,  in  which  lay 
listress's  hair  is  platted  together  very  artificially  in  a  kind  of 
■ue-lover's  knot.  As  I  have  received  great  benefit  from  this 
>eret,  I  think  myaelf  obliged  to  commimicate  it  t  j  the  public, 

for  tlie  good  of  my  feUow-gubjecta.      I  deaire  you  will 
tfais  letter  as  an  appendix  to  your  eonBoUtiona  upon    ' 
and  am. 

"  Tour  very  humble  aeiTont,     T.  B." 

I  eball  condude  this  paper  with  a  letter  from 

fotleman,  occaeioned  by  my  last  Tuesday's  paper,  whereii 
gave  some  account  of  the  great  feuda  whicu  bappene 
formerly  in  those  learned  bodies,  between  the  modern  Grreek 
and  Trojans. 
"  Sib, 

Thia  will  give  you  to  underatand,  that  there  is  at  pre 
sent  in  the  society  whereof  I  am  a  member,  a  very  con 
siderable  bodv  of  Trojans,  who,  upon  a  proper  occasion 
would  not  fail  to  declare  ouraelvea.  In  the  mean  while  vn 
do  all  we  can  to  annoy  our  enemies  by  stratagem,  and  aii 
resolved,  by  the  iirat  opportunity,  to  attack  Mr.  Joahn 
Bamea,  whom  we  look  upon  aa  the  Achillea  of  the  opposib 
party.  As  for  myself,  I  have  had  the  reputation,  ever  sine 
I  came  frum  school,  of  being  a  trusty  Trojan,  and  am  reaolve 
never  to  give  quarter  to  the  smallest  particle  of  Oreekj 
wherever  I  chance  to  meet  it.  It  ia  for  this  reason  I  takt 
it  very  ill  of  you,  that  you  aometimea  hang  out  Greek  colourt 
at  the  head  of  your  paper,  and  aometimes  give  a  word  of  th( 
enemy  even  in  the  body  of  it.  "When  I  meet  with  anythii  ' 
of  thia  nature,  I  throw  down  your  speculationB  upon  tl 
table  ;  with  that  form  of  words  which  we  make  use  of  wl 
we  declare  war  upon  an  imthor, 

GrEecum  est.  non  potest  legi. 
I  give  you  thia  hint,  that  you  may  for  the  fritiu*  abstain: 
from  any  such  hostilitiea  at  your  peril. 

"  TB0II.1IB. 

No.  247.    THUSSDAY,  DECEMBER  13. 

— Ti3v  f  iK^parog  pUt  aiS-^ 
'Eb  orofidTWC  i/iiia —  Heb. 

"Wb  are  told  by  sjme  ancient  authors,  that  Socrates  was 
inatructed  in  eloquence  by  a  woman,  whose  name,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  was  Aapauia.    I  have,  indeed,  very  often  lookei  J 

unon  that  art  as  the  most  proper  for  the  female  aei,  and  1 
think  the  umveraities  would  do  well  to  consider  whether 
they  should  not  fill  their  rhetoric  chairs  with  ahe-profeasors, 

it  has  been  said  ia  the  praise  of  some  men,  that  they  could 
talk  whole  hours  together  upon  anything' ;  but  it  must  be 
owned  to  the  honour  of  the  other  sei,  that  there  are  many 
among  them  who  can  talk  whole  hours  together  upon  nothing. 
I  have  known  a  woman  branch  out  into  a  long  extempore  dig- 
aerttttion  upon  the  edging  of  a  petticoat,  and  chide  lier  serv- 
wit  for  breaking  a  china  cup  in  all  the  figures  of  rhetoric. 

Were  women  admitted  to  plead  in  courts  of  judicature,  I 
am  persuaded  they  would  carry  the  eloquence  of  the  bar  to 
greater  heights  than  it  has  yet  arrived  at.  K  any  one  doubts 
this,  let  hitti  but  be  present  at  those  debates  which  fre- 
quently arise  among  the  ladies  of  the  British  fishery. 

The  first  kind,  thereibre,  of  female  orators  which  I  shall 
take  notice  of,  are  those  who  are  employed  in  stirring  up  the 
passions,  a  part  of  rhetoric  in  which  hocrates  hia  wife  had 
perhaps  made  a  greater  proficiency  than  his  above-mentioned 

The  second  kind  of  female  orators  are  those  who  deal  in 
invectives,  and  who  are  commonly  knoi\ii  by  the  name  of 
the  censorious.  The  imagination  and  elocution  of  this  set 
of  rhetoriciaus  is  wonderful.  With  what  a  fluency  of  inven- 
tion, and  eopiouanessB  of  eipression,  will  they  enlarge  upon 
every  little  slip  in  the  behaviour  of  another !  With  how 
many  difierent  circumataneea,  and  with  what  variety  of 
phr^s,  will  they  tell  over  the  same  story !  I  have  known 
an  old  lady  make  an  unhappy  marriage  the  subject  of  a 
month's  conversation.  She  oiamed  the  bride  in  one  place ; 
pitied  her  in  another ;  laughed  at  her  in  a  third ;  wondered 
at  her  in  a  fourth;  was  angry  vrith  her  in  a  fifth;  and  in 
short,  wore  out  a  pair  of  coach-horses  in  expressing  her  con- 
cern for  her.  At  length,  after  having  quite  exhausted  the 
■ubject  on  this  side,  she  made  a  visit  to  the  new-married 
pair,  praised  the  wife  for  the  prudeni,  choice  she  had  made, 
told  her  the  unreasonable  reflections  which  some  malicious 
people  ha<l  cast  upon  her,  and  desired  that  they  might  be 
better  acquainted.  The  censure  and  approbation  of  this 
kind  of  women  are  therefore  only  to  be  considered  as  helps 
to  discourse. 

A  third  kind  of  female  orators  may  be  comprehended  uit> 

der  the  word  Gosaips.  Mrs.  Fiddle  Faddle  is  perfectlyW 
complistied  jii  this  sort  ol'  eloquence  ;  she  launcneB  out  i 
descriptions  of  christenings,  runs  divisiona  upon  aa  hr 
dress,  kiiowa  every  dish  of  meat  that  ia  served  up  ?- 
neighbourhood,  and  entertains  her  company  a  whole 
noon  together  with  the  wit  of  her  little  hoy,  before  he  J 
able  to  apeak.  r 

The  coquette  may  he  looked  upon  aa  a  fourth  kind  of  i| 
male  orator.  To  give  herself  the  larger  fifitd  for  discoui^ 
■he  hatea  and  loves  In  the  same  breath,  talks  to  her  lap-D(| 
or  parrot,  is  uneasy  in  all  kinds  of  weather,  and  in  era* 
paj^  of  the  roam  ;  she  haa  false  quarrels  and  feigoed  oblii 
tioDS  to  all  the  men  of  her  acquaintance  ;  sighs  when  shev 
not  sad,  and  laughs  when  she  is  not  merry.  The  coquette  ia  v 
particular  a  great  mistress  of  that  part  of  oratory  which  I 
called  action,  and  indeed  seems  to  speak  for  no  other  pirf 
pose,  but  as  it  gives  her  an  opportunity  of  stirring  a  lir* 
or  varying  a  feature,  of  glancing  her  eyes,  or  playing  ■» 
her  fan. 

Aa  for  newH-mongers,  politirians,  mimics,  story-telle 
with  other  characters  of  that  nature,  which  give  birth  to  Ii 
quacity,  they  are  as  commonly  found  among  the  men  aa  iib 
women ;  for  which  reason  I  shall  pass  them  over  in  silence. 

I  have  been  often  puzzled  to  assign  a  cause  why  women 
should  have  this  talent  of  a  ready  utterance  in  so  much 
greater  perfection  than  men.  I  have  sometimes  fancied  that 
they  have  not  a  retentive  power,  the  faculty  of  suppressing 
their  thoughts,  aa  men  have,  but  that  they  are  necessitated 
to  speak  everything  they  think  ;  and  if  so,  it  would  perhaps 
furnish  a  very  strong  argument  to  the  Cartesians,  for  tlie 
supportuig  of  their  doctrine,  that  the  aoul  always  thinks. 
But  aa  several  are  of  opinion  that  the  fair  sex  are  not  alto- 
gether atrangers  to  the  arts  of  dissembling,  and  concealing 
iheir  thouglits,  I  have  been  forced  to  relinquish  that  opinion, 
and  have,  therefore,  endeavoured  to  seek  after  aotne  hettei 
reason.  In  order  to  it,  a  friend  of  mine,  who  is  an  excellent 
anatomist,  haa  promised  me  by  the  first  opportunity  to  dis- 
sect a  woman's  tongue,  and  to  examine  whether  there  may 
not  he  in  it  certain  juices  which  render  it  so  wonderfully 
voluble  or  flippant,  or  whether  the  fibrea  of  it  may  not  be 
made  up  of  a  finer  or  more  pliant  thread,  or  whether  there.  _ 
are  not  in  it  some  particnhir  muscles,  whicii  dart  it  up 


down  by  such  suUden  gJaaees  and  vibrations ;  or  whether,  in 
the  hkst  place,  there  may  not  be  certain  undiscovered  chaii- 
nels  running  from  the  head  and  the  heart,  to  this  little  in- 
atrument  of  loquacity,  and  conveying  into  it  a  perpetual 
affluenoe  of  aniitial  spirita.  !N^or  must  I  omit  the  reason 
which  Hudibraa  has  given,  why  those  who  can  tali  on  trifles 
speak  with  the  greatest  fluency ;  namely,  that  the  tongue 
IB  like  a  race-horse,  which  runs  the  laster  the  lesser  weight 
it  carries. 

Which  of  these  reasons  soever  may  be  looted  upon  as  the 
moat  probable,  I  think  the  Irishman's  thought  was  very  na- 
tural, who,  after  some  hours'  conversation  with  a  female 
orator,  told  her,  that  he  believed  her  tongue  was  very  glad 
when  she  was  asleep,  for  that  it  had  not  a  moment's  rest  all 
the  while  she  was  awake. 

That  escellent  old  ballad  of  the  "  Wanton  Wife  of  Bath" 
has  the  following  remarkable  lines : 

And  Ovid,  though  in  the  description  of  a  very  barbarous 
circumstance,  tells  us,  that  when  the  tongue  of  a  beautiful 
female  was  cut  out,  and  thrown  upoa  the  ground,  it  could 
not  forbear  muttering  even  in  that  posture : 
— CompTehensam  forcipe  ImgunDi 
Abstulit  ease  fera.    Rsdis  micat  ultima  Iln^m. 
Ipsa  jacet,  lerrseque  CiemenB  immurmuml  utrie  i 
Ulgue  salire  Bolet  muuiatie  caudn.  colubiie, 
If  a  tongue  would  be  talking  without  a  mouth,  what  could 
it  have  done  when  it  had  all  its  organs  of  speech,  and  accom- 
plices of  sound,  about  it  ?     I  might  here  mention  the  stoiy 
^i  T -gn  to  look  upon  it 

I,  had  not  I  s 

of  the  pippin 
OS  fabulous. 

I  must  confess  I  am  so  wonderfiilly  charmed  with  the 
music  of  this  little  instrument,  that  I  would  by  no  means 
diseour^ie  it.  All  that  I  aim  at  by  this  dissertation  is,  to 
cure  it  of  several  disagreeable  notes,  and  in  particular  of  those 
little  jarrings  and  dissonances  which  arise  from  anger,  een- 
sonousness,  gossiping,  and  coquetry.  In  short,  I  would  liavs 
it  always  tuned  by  gool-nature,  truth,  discretioa,  oad  i'" 

addisoh'b  wobes. 

been  treatOiW 

No.  249.     8ATUEDAT.  DECEJNfBEE 

lS\w£  Bcaipoc  iv  /3poraTc  Suviv  cajcov. 

WnEiT  I  makp  choice  of  a  subject  that  has  not  been  ti 
on  by  others,  I  throw  together  my  reflectioua  on  it  without 
any  order  or  method,  bo  that  they  may  appear  rather  in  the 
loosenesa  and  freedom  of  an  eaaay,  than  m  the  reeiilarity  oi' 
a  set  discourae.  It  ia  after  this  manner  that  I  shall  consider 
laught«r  and  ridicule  in  my  present  paper, 

Man  is  the  merriest  apecies  of  the  creation,  oil  above  and 
below  him  are  serioua.  He  sees  things  in  a  different  light 
from  other  beings,  and  tinda  bis  mirth  rising  from  objects  that 
perhaps  cause  something  like  pity  or  displeasure  m  higher 
natures.  Laughter  ia,  indeed,  a  very  good  counterpoise  to 
the  spleen ;  and  it  seems  but  reasonable  tliat  we  should  be 
capable  of  receiving  joy  fi^m  what  ia  no  real  good  to  us,  since 
we  can  receive  grief  irom  what  is  no  real  evil. 

I  have  in  my  forty-aeventh  paper  raised  a  speculation  on 
the  notion  of  a  modem  philosopher,  who  describes  the  first 
motive  of  laughter  to  be  a  secret  comparison  which  we  make 
between  ourselves  and  the  persona  we  laugh  at ;  or,  in 
other  words,  that  satisfaction  which  we  receive  from  the 
opinion  of  some  pre-eminence  in  ourselves,  when  we  see  the 
absurdities  of  another,  or  when  we  reflect  on  any  past  ab- 
surdities of  our  own.  Thie  seema  to  hold  in  moat  cases,  and 
we  may  observe  that  the  vainest  part  of  mankind  are  the  most 
addicted  to  this  passion. 

I  have  read  a  aermon  of  a  conventual  in  the  church  of 
Home,  on  those  words  of  the  wise  man  -,  "  I  said  of  Laugh- 
ter, it  is  mad  ;  and  of  Mirth,  what  doea  it  ?  "  Upon  wliich  he 
laid  it  down  as  a  point  of  doctrine,  that  laughter  waa  the 
effect  of  original  sm,  and  that  Adam  could  not  laugh  before 
the  fall. 

Laughter,  while  it  lasts,  slackens  and  unbraces  the  mind, 
weakens  the  faculties,  and  causes  a  kind  of  remissness  and 
dissolution  in  all  the  powers  of  the  soul:  and  thus  far  it 
may  be  looked  upon  as  a  weakness  in  the  composition  of  hu- 
man nature.  But  if  we  consider  the  fequent  reliefa  we 
receive  from  it,  and  how  often  it  breaks  the  gloom  which  ii 
^  to  depress  the  mind-and  damp  our  spirits  with  t 


and  unexpecteo  glenms  of  joy,  one  would  take  care  not  to 
grow  too  wise  for  so  great  a  ploaaure  of  life. 

The  talent  of  turning  men  into  ridicule,  and  espoaing  to 
langhter  tLoae  one  converses  with,  is  the  qualification  of  little, 
ungenerous  tempera.  A  young  man  with  this  cast  of  mind 
cuts  himself  off  from  all  manner  of  improvement.  Every  one 
has  bis  flaws  and  weaknesses  ;  nay,  the  greatest  blemisheB  are 
often  found  in  the  most  shining  characters ;  but  what  an  ab- 
surd thing  ia  it  to  pass  over  all  the  valuable  parts  of  a  man, 
and  fix  our  attention  on  his  infirmitiBs  !  to  observe  hia  im- 
perfections more  than  his  virtues !  and  to  make  use  of  him 
ibr  the  sport;  of  others,  rather  than  our  own  improvement ! 

"We  therefore  very  often  find,  that  persons  the  moat  accom- 
plished in  ridicule,  are  those  who  are  very  shrewd  at  hitting 
s  blot,  without  exerting  anything  maaterly  in  themselvea. 
Ae  there  are  many  eminent  critics  who  never  writ  a  good 
line,  there  are  many  admirable  bufl'oona  that  animadvert  upon 
every  single  defect  in  another,  without  ever  discoverin"  the 
least  beauty  of  their  own.  By  this  means,  theae  unlucky  little 
wits  often  gain  reputation  in  the  esteem  of  vulgar  minds,  and 
raise  themselves  above  persons  of  much  more  laudable  cha- 

If  the  talent  of  ridiculewere  employed  to  laugh  men  out  of 
vice  and  folly,  it  might  be  of  some  use  to  the  world  ;  but  in- 
stead of  this,  we  find  that  it  is  generally  made  use  of  to 
laugh  men  out  of  virtue  and  good  sense,  by  attacking  everj-- 
thing  that  ia  solemn  and  serious,  decent  and  praise-worthy,  in 
human  life. 

We  may  observe,  that  in  the  first  ages  of  the  world,  when 
the  great  souls  and  master-pieces  of  human  nature  were  pro- 
duced, men  shined  by  a  noole  simplicity  of  behaviour,  and 
were  strangers  to  those  little  embellishments  which  are  so 
fashionable  in  our  present  converaation.  And  it  ia  very  re- 
markable, that  notwithstanding  we  fell  short  at  present  of  the 
ancients  in  poetry,  painting,  oratory,  hiatory,  architecture,  and 
all  the  noble  arts  and  sciences  which  depend  more  upon  genius 
than  experience,  we  exceed  them  aa  much  in  doggerel,  humour, 
burlesque,  and  all  the  trivial  arts  of  ridicule.  We  meet  with 
more  raiUery  among  the  moderns,  but  more  good  sense  among 
the  ancients. 

The  two  great  branches  of  ridicule  in  writing  are  comedy 
and  burlesque.     The  first  ridiculea  persona  by  drawing  them 


in  their  proper  cliarnctfrs;  the  other,  by  drawing  them  qui 
unlike  theinaelTea.  Burlesque  is  therefore  of  two  kinds  ;  '' 
first  representB  mean  persons  in  accoutrementB  of  her 
the  other  describes  great  persona  acting  and  epeaking  like  the 
basest  among  the  people.  Don  Quixote  ia  an  instance  of  the 
first,  and  Lucian's  gods  of  the  eecond.  It  is  a  dispute  among 
the  critics,  whether  burlesque  poetry  runa  best  in  heroic  verse, 
like  that  of  the  Dispensary ;  or  in  doggerel,  like  that  of  Hu- 
dibros.  I  think  where  the  low  character  is  to  be  raised,  the 
heroic  is  the  proper  measure ;  but  when  an  hero  is  to  be 
pulled  down  and  degraded,  it  is  done  beat  in  doggerel. 

If  Hudibros  had  been  set  out  with  as  much  wit  and 
humour  in  heroic  verse  as  he  ia  in  doggerel,  he  would  have 
made  a  much  more  agreeable  figure  than  he  does ;  though 
the  generality  of  his  readers  are  so  wonderfiilly  pleased  with 
the  double  rhymes,  that  I  do  not  expect  many  will  be  of  my 
opinion  in  this  particular. 

I  shall  conclude  this  essay  upon  laughter,  with  observing, 
that  the  metaphor  of  laughing,  applied  to  fields  and  meadowa 
when  they  are  in  flower,  or  to  trees  when  they  are  in  blos- 
som, runs  through  all  languages ;  which  I  have  not  observed 
of  any  other  metaphor,  excepting  that  of  fire  and  burning 
when  they  are  applied  to  love.  Ibis  shows  that  we  naturally 
regard  laughter,  as  what  is  in  itself  both  amiable  and  beauti- 
ful. For  this  reason,  likewise,  Venus  has  gained  the  title 
of  f  Ao/if ( Jijc,  the  laughter-loving  dame,  as  Waller  has  trans- 
lated it,  and  is  represented  by  Horace  as  the  goddess  who 
dehghts  in  laughter.  Milton,  in  a  joyous  aesembly  of 
imaginary  persons,  has  given  a  very  poetical  figure  of  laugh- 
ter. His  whole  band  of  mirth  ia  so  finely  described,  that  I'M 
•hall  set  the  passage  down  at  length. 

Bat  come,  thou  noddcas,  fair  and  free. 
In  hesTtn  jcleped  Euphrusyno, 

To  iry-crowned  Bacchus  bore  : 

Haale  thee,  nymph,  Bjid  bring  1*1111  Ihea 

Jest  and  youihfiil  Jollity, 

Qmps,  and  cracks,  and  wunton  wilet. 

Mods,  md  becks,  and  nrealhed  smilM, 


Sport,  that  'wrinkleil  care  derides. 

AJid  Laughlci,  holdiog  both  his  aides. 

Come,  and  trip  it  as  yoit  go. 

On  the  light  fiuitBdtic  toe, 

And  in  ihy  right  hnnd  lead  witli  thee 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty } 

Jmi  if  I  gi'o  Ihee  honour  due, 

Mirth,  Hdmit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  hve  with  thee, 

la  imreproTcd  pleasures  free. 

B"o.  251.    TUESDAY,  DECEMBEE  18. 

— Linguffi  centum  sunt,  oraque  centum, 
Feirea  vox. —  Viro. 

Thsbe  is  nothing  which  more  astoniBhes  a  foreigner  and 
frights  a  eoTintry  squire,  than  the  Cries  of  London.  My 
good  friend  Sir  Bogep  often  declares,  that  he  cannot  get  them 
out  of  hia  head,  or  go  to  sleep  for  them,  the  first  week  that 
he  is  in  town.  On  the  contrary,  Will,  Honeycomb  calls  them 
the  Ramage  de  la  Ville,  and  prefers  them  to  the  sounds  of 
larks  aod  nightingales,  with  all  the  music  of  the  fields  and 
woods.  I  Lave  lately  received  a  letter  from  some  very  odd 
fellow  upon  this  subject,  which  I  shall  leave  with  my  reader, 
without  saying  anything  turther  of  it. 


1  am  a  man  out  of  all  business,  and  would  willingly 
turn  my  head  to  anything  for  an  honest  livelihood.  I  have 
invented  several  projects  for  raising  many  mtUions  of  money 
without  burthenmg  the  subject,  but  I  cannot  get  the  parlia- 
meut  to  listen  to  me,  who  look  upon  me,  forsooth,  as  a  crack 
and  a  projector ;  so  that  despairing  to  enrich  either  myself  or 
my  countiy  by  this  public-apiritedneBs,  I  would  make  some 
proposals  to  you  relating  to  a  design  which  I  have  very 
much  at  heart,  and  which  may  procure  me  an  handsome  sub- 
Bistence,  if  you  will  be  pleased  to  recommend  it  to  the  cities 
of  London  and  Westminster. 

"  The  post  I  would  aim  at  is  to  be  Oomptroller-general  of 
the  London  Cries,  which  are  at  present  under  no  manner  of 
rules  or  discipline.  I  think  1  om  pretty  well  qualified  for 
this  place,  as  oeing  a  man  of  very  strong  lungs,  of  great  i 

■ight  intn  nil  l)io  braucheti  of  our  Britliili  trades  and  numn 
wturOH,  and  of  »  conipph-nt  tikill  in  miisic. 

"  The  cries  of  London  mny  hr  divided  into  vocal  ani 
instrumental.  As  for  thu  Utter,  tbov  are  at  present  under  i 
Tery  great  disorder.  A  frwman  of  London  baa  the  privilep 
of  diHturbing  a  whole  street,  fciT  an  hour  topether,  with  Mt 
twauking  of  a  brasB-kcttle  or  a  fiying-pan.  The  watchman'e 
tbump  at  midnight  Htartles  ua  in  our  beds  as  mueh  aa  die 
breaking  in  of  a  thief.  The  BOw-gelder's  born  has  indeed 
something  muflical  in  it,  but  this  is  seldom  beard  within  the 
liberties.  I  woidd  therefore  propose,  that  no  instrument  of 
tbia  nature  should  be  made  use  of,  nhicb  I  have  not  tuned 
and  licensed,  after  having  carefully  examined  in  what  manner 
it  may  affect  the  ears  of  her  Majesty's  liege  subjects. 

"  Vocal  cries  are  of  a  much  larger  estent,  and,  indeed,  so; 
full  of  incongruities  and  barbarisms,  that  we  appear  a  dis^'i 
trkcted  city  to  foreigners,  who  do  not  comprehend  the  mean' 
ing  of  Hueb  enormous  outcries.     Milk  is  generally  sold  in  a,i 
note  above  ela,  and  it  Bounds  bo  exceeding  shrill,  that  it  often  I 
sets  our  teeth  on  edge.    The  chiraney-eweeper  is  confined  to  ■ 
no  certain  pitch ;  be  sometimes  utters  himself  in  the  deepest  \ 
bass,  and  sometimes  in  the  sharpest  treble;  sometimes  iaj 
the  highest,  and  sometimes  in  the  lowest  note  of  the  sanmt.  jl 
The  some  observation  might  be  made  on  the  retailera  of  I 
small  coal,  not  to  mention  broken  glaaaea  or  briek-diist. 
these,  therefore,  and  the  like  cases,  it  should  be  my  cart 
sweeten  and  mellow  the  voices  of  these  itinerant  tradesmen, 
before  they  make  their  appearance  in  our  streets,  as  also  to 
accommodate  their  cries  to  their  reapcctivo  wares ;  and  to 
take  care  in  pM^icular  that  those  may  not  make  the  most 
noise  who  have  the  least  to  sell,  which  ia  very  observable  in 
the  venders  of  card-motehes,  to  whom  I  cannot  but  apply 
that  old  proverb  of '  Much  cry,  but  little  wool.' 

"  Some  of  those  last-mentioned  musicians  are  so  very  loud 
in  the  sale  of  these  trifling  manufectures,  that  an  honest 
splenetic  gentleman  of  my  acquaintance  hnrgained  with  one 
o?  them  never  to  como  into  the  street  where  he  lived ;  but 
what  was  the  effect  of  this  contract  ?  why,  the  whole  tribe 
of  card-match-raakera  which  &«quent  the  quarter,  passed  by 
his  door  tlio  very  next  day,  in  hopes  of  being  bought  off  after 
the  same  manner. 
^^■Ut  is  another  great  imperfection  in  our  London  cries, 


that  there  ia  no  juat  time  nor  meaaure  observed  in  them. 
Our  newB  ehould,  indeed,  be  published  in  a  very  quick  time, 
ItecauEe  it  is  a  commodity  that  will  not  keep  cold.  It  should 
not,  howerer,  be  cried  with  the  same  precipitation  as  '  fire:' 
I  yet  this  is  generaUy  the  eaae.  A  bloody  battle  alarms  the 
town  from  one  end  to  another  in  an  instant.  Every  motion 
of  the  French  ia  published  in  ao  great  a  hurry,  that  one 
would  think  the  enemy  were  at  our  gates.  Thia  likewise  I 
would  take  upon  me  to  regulate  in  auch  a  manner,  that  there 
ehould  he  aome  distinction  made  between  the  epreading  of  B 
victory,  a  march,  or  an  encampment,  a  Dutch,  a  Portugal,  or 
a  Spaniah  mail.  Nor  must  I  omit  under  this  head,  those 
eicessive  alarms  with  which  several  hoiateroua  rustics  infeat 
our  streets  in  turnip  season ;  and  which  are  more  inexcuaa- 
ble,  because  these  are  wares  which  are  in  no  danger  of  cool- 
ing npon  their  hands. 

"  There  are  others  who  affect  a  very  slow  time,  and  are, 
in  my  opinion,  much  more  tunable  than  the  former ;  the 
cooper,  in  particular,  swells  his  last  note  in  an  hollow  voice, 
that  is  not  without  its  harmony :  nor  can  I  forbear  being 
in^ired  with  a  most  agreeable  melancholy,  when  I  hear  that 
Bad  and  solemn  air  with  which  thepubhc  is  very  often  asked, 
if  they  have  any  chaira  to  mend  P  Your  own  memory  may  sug- 
gest to  you  many  other  lamentable  ditties  of  the  same  nature, 
in  which  the  music  ia  wonderfully  languishing  and  melodious. 

"  I  am  always  pleased  with  that  particidar  time  of  the 
year  which  is  proper  for  the  pickling  of  dill  and  cucumbers; 
out,  alaa,  this  cry,  like  the  aong  o!  the  nightingale,  ia  not 
heard  above  two  montha.  It  would,  therefore,  be  worth 
while  to  consider  whether  the  same  air  might  not  in  aome 
cases  be  adopted  to  other  words. 

"  It  might  likewise  deserve  our  moat  serious  consideration, 
how  far,  in  a  well-regulated  city,  those  humourists  are  to  be 
tolerated,  who,  not  contented  with  the  traditional  cries  of 
their  foro&thers,  have  invented  particular  songs  and  tunes 
of  their  own :  auph  aa  was,  not  many  years  since,  the  pastry- 
man,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  the  colly- molly-puff; 
and  auch  aa  is  at  this  day  the  vender  of  powder  and  wash- 
balla,  who,  if  I  am  rightly  inibrmed,  goes  imder  the  name  of 
Powder  Watt. 

"  I  must  not  here  omit  one  particular  absiirdity  which  runs 
through  tliis  whole  vociferoua  generation,  and  which  renders 


tlieir  cries  very  often  not  only  ineommodious,  but  altogether 
lueleBB  to  the  public ;  I  mean  that  idle  accomptiHrimeDC 
which  they  all  of  them  aim  at,  of  cryinf;  so  as  not  to  be 
underatooa.  Whether  or  no  they  ha\-e  learned  thia  from 
several  of  our  affected  lingers,  I  will  not  take  upon  me  to 
nay  ',  but  most  certain  it  ia,  that  people  know  the  wares  they 
deal  in  rather  by  their  tunea  than  by  their  words ;  insomuch, 
that  I  have  sometimes  seen  a  country  boy  run  out  to  buy 
applea  of  a  bellows-mender,  and  ginger-bread  from  a  grinder 
or  knives  and  scisiiara.  Nav,  so  strangely  infatuated 
some  very  eminent  artists  oi  this  particular  grace  in  a 
that  none  but  their  acquaintance  are  able  to  guess  at  t1 
profession ;  for  who  else  ean  know  that,  "  Work  if  I  had 
ahould  be  the  signification  of  a  com-cutter. 

"  ForBBmueh,  therefore,  as  persons  of  this  rank  are  seldom 
men  of  genius  or  capacity,  I  think  it  would  be  very  proper, 
that  some  man  of  good  sense,  and  sound  Judgment,  should 
preside  over  theae  public  cries,  who  should  permit  none  to 
lift  up  their  voices  in  our  streets,  that  have  not  tuneable 
throats,  and  are  not  only  able  to  overcome  the  noiae  of  the 
crowd,  and  the  rattling  of  coaches,  but  alao  to  vend  their 
respective  merchandises  in  apt  phrases,  and  in  the  most  dis- 
tinct and  agreeable  sounds.  I  do  therefore  humbly  reeoiQ- 
raend  myself  as  a  person  rightly  qualified  for  this  post :  and 
if  I  meet  with  fitting  encouragement,  shall  communicate  some 
other  projects  which  I  have  by  me,  that  may  no  leas  conduce 
to  the  emolument  of  the  public. 

"  I  am,  sir,  Ac. 

"  Halph  Cbotchet." 

No.  253.    THUBSDAT,  DECEJIBEfl  20. 

lid  quia  nuper.    Hon. 

Thxdb  is  nothing  which  more  denotes  a  great  mind,  than 
the  abhorrence  of  envy  and  detraction.  This  passion  reigna 
more  among  b»d  poets,  than  among  ar^  other  set  of  men. 

Aa  there  are  none  more  ambitious  of  fame,  than  those  who 
are  conversant  in  poetry,  it  is  very  natural  for  such  as  have 
not  succeeded  in  it,  to  depreciate  the  works  of  those  whs 
have.    For  since  they  cannot  raiae  themselves  to  the  repnt-l 

ation  of  tteir  fellow-writera,  they  nroat  endeavour  to  sink  it 
to  their  own  pitch,  if  they  woala  still  keep  themaelvea  upon 
a  level  with  theia. 

The  greatest  wits  that  ever  were  produced  in  one  age, 
lived  together  in  bo  good  an  understanding,  and  celebrated 
one  another  with  bo  much  generosity,  that  each  of  them  re- 
cerves  an  additional  lustre  from  his  coutomporaries,  and  is 
more  famous  for  having  lived  with  men  of  ao  extraordinary 
R  genius,  than  if  he  had  himaelf  heen  the  sole  wonder  of  hia 
age.  I  need  not  tel!  my  reader,  that  I  here  point  at  the 
reign  of  Augustus,  and  I  believe  he  will  be  of  my  opinion, 
that  neither  Virgil  nor  Horace  would  have  gained  bo  great  a 
reputation  in  the  world,  had  they  not  been  the  friends  and 
aifinirera  of  each  other.  Indeed  all  the  great  writers  of  that 
age,  for  whom  singly  we  have  ho  great  an  esteem,  stand  up 
together  as  vouchera  for  one  another's  reputation.  But  at 
the  same  time  that  Virgil  was  celebrated  hy  Galius,  Proper- 
tius,  Horace,  Varius,  Tucca,  and  Ovid,  we  know  that  Baviua 
and  Mffivius  were  his  declared  foes  and  calumniators. 

In  our  own  country  a  man  aeldom  sets  up  for  a  poet, 
without  attacking  the  reputation  of  all  hie  brothers  in  the 
art.  The  ignorance  of  the  modems,  the  scribblers  of  the  age, 
the  decay  of  poetry,  are  the  topics  of  detraction,  with  which 
lie  makes  his  entrance  into  the  world:  but  how  much  more 
noble  is  the  fame  that  is  built  on  candour  and  ingenuity, 
according  to  those  beautiful  lines  of  Sir  John  Denham,  m 
liiB  poem  on  Fletcher's  works ! 

B  111  whilhei  hid  1  BtriLy»l  ?  1  need  not  raiao 
Trophies  to  thee  from  other  men's  di&piaus ; 
Nor  is  Ihy  fame  on  lesser  ruius  built, 
Noc  needs  thy  juet«i  title  the  foul  guilt 
Ot  eastern  liings,  who,  to  secure  their  reign, 
Must  liave  tlieir  brotheis,  sons,  and  kindred  slain. 
I  am  sorry  to  find  that  an  author,  who  is  very  justly 
eeteemed  among  the  best  judges,  has  admitted  some  strokes 
of  tills  nature '  into  a  very  fine  poem,  I  mean  "  The  Art  of 

'  Some  stroke!  qflhit  no(«re.]  If,  by  ilTokea  of  Ihia  naiure,  lie  meant 
Btrokea  of  personi^  detraction,  it  is  certain  that  we  now  perceive  ao  auch 
Btcokea  in  the  Art  of  Criliasin.  But  1  suppose  tiiat  some  general  re- 
flectiODs  in  that  poem  were  miderstood,  at  \he  time  of  it^  publicaliuu.  to 
^le particulaT  and  pertotial ;  or,  the  candour  and  gentleness  of  Mr.  Addi- 
•on's  temper  might  take  offence  at  general  satire,  when  expresMd  with  k 


gince,  and  i^^ 
I   follow  ODtf^ 

Criticisir,"  which  was  published  some 
a  niaHter-pieco  in  its  Kiiiil.  The  obaervations  1 
another  lite  those  in  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry,  without  that 
methodical  regularity  which  would  have  been  requisit*  in  it 
prose  author.  They  are  Bome  of  them  uneommon,  but  such 
ws  the  reader  must  assent  to,  when  he  seea  them  esplained 
with  thflt  elegance  and  perspicuity  in  which  they  are  delivered. 
As  for  those  which  are  the  most  known,  and  the  moat  received, 
they  are  placed  in  so  beautiful  a  light,  and  illustrated  with 
Bucn  apt  allusions,  that  they  have  in  them  all  the  graces  of 
novelty,  and  make  the  reader,  who  was  before  acquainted 
with  them,  still  more  convinced  of  their  truth  and  solidity. 
And  here  give  me  leave  to  mention  what  Monsieur  Boileau 
hfts  BO  very  well  enlarged  upon  in  the  preface  to  his  works, 
thdt  wit  and  fine  writing  doth  not  consist  so  much  in  ad- 
vniicing  things  that  are  new,  as  in  giving  things  that  are  known 
an  agreeable  torn.  It  is  impossible  for  us,  who  live  in  the 
latter  ages  of  the  world,  to  make  observations  in  criticism, 
raoralitv,  or  in  any  art  or  science,  which  have  not  been 
toiicheii  upon  by  others.  We  have  little  else  left  us,  but  to 
represent  the  common  sense  of  mankind  in  more  strong, 
niore  beautil'ul,  or  more  uncommon  lights.  If  a  reader  ei- 
ainities  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry,  he  will  find  but  very  few 
precepts  in  it,  which  he  may  not  meet  with  in  Aristotle, 
and  which  were  not  commonly  known  by  all  the  poets  of 
the  Augustan  ago.  His  way  of  eiprcssiug  and  applying 
them,  not  his  invention  of  them,  is  what  we  are  chiefly  to 

For  this  reason  I  think  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so 
tiresome  ns  the  works  of  those  critics,  who  write  in  a  posi- 
tive, dogmatic  way,  without  either  language,  genius,  or  ima- 
ginatiou.  If  the  render  would  see  how  the  beat  of  the  Latin 
critics  writ,  he  may  find  their  manner  very  beautifully  de- 
ecribed  in  the  characti'rs  of  Horace.  Petroniua,  Quintilian, 
■nd  LongitniB,  as  they  are  drawn  in  the  essay  of  which  I  am 
now  eposkin^. 

Since  1  have  m«itioned  Longiniis,  who  in  his  reflections 
has  given  us  the  same  kind  of  auolime,  which  he  observes  in 
the  SOTeml  iwiasapw  that  ocoaaioued  thorn;  I  cannot  but 
take  notioe.  inat  our  English  author  has  after  the  same  man* 
ncr  exemplified  several  of  his  precepta  in  the  vfry  pre«^ti  j 
Ihemsi^n's.     I  shall  produce  two  or  three  inaUuoea  of  uivg 

kind.   Speaking  of  the  insipid  Bmoothneas  which  some  readers 
are  ao  much  in  love  with,  ne  haa  the  following  Teraea. 

These  equal  lyllablei  alone  require, 
Though  oft  the  ear  tho  ojwn  cowcb  tiro. 
While  expktivei  their  feeble  aid  do  join, 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line. 

The  gaping  of  the  Towels  in  the  second  line,  the  expletiye 
do  in  the  third,  and  the  ten  monosyllableB  in  the  fourth,  give 
Buch  a  beauty  to  this  passage,  as  would  hare  been  very  much 
admired  in  an  ancient  poet.  The  reader  may  observe  the 
following  lines  in  the  same  view. 

And  afterwards, 


enough  DO  harshness  gi 

_    is  the  Btiain  when  Ztphyr  gently  blows, 
And  the  >moo(h  stream  in  tmoother  number  flows ; 
But  when  loud  surges  laah  the  sounding  shore. 
The  Aoorje,  rough  vent  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 
When  Ajax  atriyes  some  rook's  vaat  weight  to  throw. 
The  line  too  labouri,  and  the  words  move  tkne  : 
Not  so,  when  awii)  CamiSa  scouts  Ihe  plain, 
Flies  o'er  th"  unbending  com,  ond  skims  along  the  mttia. 

The  beautiful  distich  upon  Ajax  in  the  foregoing  linefl, 
puts  me  in  mind  of  a  description  in  Homer's  Odyssey.  It 
la  where  Sisyphus  ia  represented  lifting  his  stone  up  the  hill, 
which  is  no  sooner  carried  to  the  top  of  it,  but  it  immedi- 
ately tumbles  to  the  bottom.  This  double  motion  of  tho 
stone  is  admirably  described  in  the  nuuibera  of  these  verses ; 
ss  in  the  four  first  it  is  heaved  up  by  several  spondees,  inter- 
mixed with  proper  breathing-places,  and  at  iast  trundles 
down  in  a  continued  line  of  Dactyls. 

Kai  pijv  Xinvfov 

a,.- J,.. 

Aaai>  dv4ii  luSfffei  ttotJ  Xortov  aW  Bn 
'Atpov  vrippaXtuv,  tot'  awoaTpi^/aaa 
AJrif,  •JTfira  rklovSi  taXiiiliro  \aac  i 

It  would  be  endless  to  i^uoto  vers* 
hire  this  particular  kind  ot  beauty  ii 

I  out  of  Tirgil  whic.'i 
the  numbers;  but  I 

166  aDDISOTI'b   W0EE8. 

may  take  ai   occasion  in  a  future  paper  to  ahor  aeTCral 
them  whicb  have  eacaped  the  observation  of  others. 

I  cannot  conclude  this  paper  without  taking  notice,  that 
we  have  three  pocma  in  our  tongue,  which  are  of  the  aame 
nature,  and  each  of  thorn  a  maBter-piece  in  its  kind ;  the 
Easay  on  Translated  Veree,  the  Essay  on  the  Art  of  Poetry, 
and  the  Esaay  upon  Criticism. 

No.  255.    SATUEDAT,  DECEMBER  23. 

Laadia  amore  tumes  ?  sunt  iieiUt  piacula  quie  le 
Ter  puie  lecto  potenmt  reareais  libello.  Hoi 

The  soul,  eonaidered  abatractedly  from  its  passions,  ia  of  a  rfr 
miss  and  sedentary  nature,  alow  m  ita  reaolvea,  and  languish- 
ing in  its  executions.  The  use,  therefore,  of  the  pasaiona.ia 
to  stir  it  up,  and  put  it  upon  action,  to  awaken  the  under- 
standing, to  enforce  the  will,  and  to  malce  the  whole  man 
more  vigorous  and  attentive  in  the  prosecution  of  hia  designs. 
Aa  this  is  the  end  of  the  paaaiona  in  general,  so  it  is  parti- 
eularly  of  ambition,  which  puahea  the  aoul  to  such  actions  as 
are  apt  to  procure  honour  and  reputation  to  the  actor.  But 
if  we  carry  our  reflections  higher,  we  may  discover  fiirther 
ends  of  Providence  in  implanting  this  passion  in  mankind. 

It  was  neceasan^  for  the  world,  that  arts  should  be  invent- 
ed and  improved,  books  written  and  traismitted  to  posterity, 
nations  conquered  and  civilized :  now,  since  the  proper  and 
genuine  motives  to  these  and  the  lite  great  actions  would 
only  influence  virtuous  minda ;  there  would  be  but  small  im- 
provements in  the  world,  were  there  not  some  common  prin^ 
eiple  of  action  working  equally  with  all  men.  And  such 
a  principle  is  ambition,  or  a  deaire  of  fame,  by  which  great 
endowmenta  are  not  suffered  to  lie  idle  and  uaeleas  to  the 
public,  and  many  vicioua  men  overreached,  aa  it  were,  and 
engaged  contraiy  to  their  natural  inelinationa  in  a  glorious 
and  laudable  courae  of  action.  Eor  we  may  further  observe, 
that  men  of  tbe  greatest  abilities  are  moat  fired  with  ambi- 
tion :  and  that,  on  the  contrary,  mean  and  narrow  minda  are 
the  lenat  actuated  by  it ;  whether  it  be  that  a  man's  sense  of 
his  own  incapacities  makes  him  despair  of  coming  at  fame, 
or  that  he  has  aot  enough  range  of  thought  to  look  out  few 


it.  IHB   8PECTAT0B. 

any  good  which  does  not  more  immediately  relate  to  his  in- 
terest or  conyenience,  op  that  Providence,  in  the  very  frame 
of  hia  soul,  would  not  subject  him  to  euch  apossionas  would 
be  ufleleBB  to  the  world,  and  a  torment  to  bimBclf. 

"Were  not  this  desire  of  fame  very  etrong,  the  difficulty  of 
olitaining  it,  and  the  danger  of  loeiiig  it  when  obtained,  would 
bo  sufficient  to  deter  a.  man  from  bo  vain  a  pursuit. 

How  few  are  there  who  are  fumiahed  with  ahilitiea  suffici- 
ent to  recommend  their  actions  to  the  admiration  of  the 
world,  and  to  diatinguiah  themselvea  from  the  rest  of  man- 
kind !  Providence  for  the  moat  part  sets  ua  upon  a  level, 
andDbEervesakiud  of  proportion  in  its  dispensations  towards 
DS.  If  it  renders  us  perfect  in  one  accompliahment,  it  gener- 
ally leaves  ub  defective  in  another,  and  seems  careful  rather 
of  preserving  every  person  from  being  mean  and  deficient  in 
his  qualifications,  than  of  making  any  single  one  eminent  or 

And  among  those  who  are  the  most  richly  endowed  by  na- 
ture, and  accomplished  by  their  own  industry,  how  few  ara 
there  whose  virtues  are  not  obscured  by  the  ignorance,  pre- 
judice, or  envy  of  their  beholdera!  Some  men  cannot  diacem 
between  a  noble  and  a  mean  action.  Others  are  apt  to  at- 
tribute them  to  some  false  end  or  intention  ;  and  others  pur- 
posely misrepresent  or  put  a  wrong  interpretation  on  them. 

But  the  more  to  enforce  this  consideration,  we  may  observe 
that  those  are  generally  most  unsuccessful  in  their  pursuit 
after  fame,  who  are  most  desirous  of  obtaining  it.  It  is  Sol- 
lufit'a  remark  upon  Cato,  that  the  less  he  coveted  glory,  the 
more  he  acquired  it. 

Men  take  an  ill-natured  pleasure  in  crossing  our  inclina- 
tioDS,aDd  disappointing  us  m  what  our  hearts  are  most  set 
upon.  When,  iherefoM,  they  have  discovered  the  passionate 
desire  of  fame  in  the  ambitious  man,  (as  no  temper  of  mind 
IB  more  apt  to  show  itseli^)  they  become  sparing  and  reserved 
in  their  commendations,  they  envy  hi-m  the  satisfaction  of  an 
applause,  and  look  on  their  praiees  rather  as  a  kindness  done 
to  his  person,  than  as  a  tribute  paid  to  hia  merit.  Othera, 
who  are  free  Irom  this  natural  perveraeness  of  temper,  grow 
irary  in  their  praises  of  one,  who  sets  too  great  a  value  on 
them,  lest  they  should  raise  him  too  high  in  his  own  imagin- 
ation,  and  by  consequence  remove  him  to  a  greater  diatar.i^ 
from  themselves. 

But  further,  this  desire  of  fame  naturally  betrays  the  k 
bitiouB  mao  int«  sueh  indeceneiea  as  are  leaaeniDg  to  his  n 
putation.  He  is  still  afraid  leat  any  of  his  actions  should 
be  thrown  away  in  private,  lest  his  deaerts  should  be  con- 
cealed from  the  notice  of  the  world,  or  receive  any  disad- 
vantage from  the  reports  which  others  make  of  them.  Thia 
often  seta  him  on  empty  boaats  and  ostentations  of  him- 
self, and  betrays  him  into  vain,  fantastic  recitals  of  hi  a  own 
performances ;  his  discourse  generally  leans  one  way,  and 
whatever  ia  the  subject  of  it,  tenda  obliquely  either  to  the  de- 
tracting from  others,  or  the  estolling  of  himself.  Vanity  ia 
the  natural  weakness  of  an  ambitious  man,  which  exposes 
him  to  the  secret  acom  and  derision  of  those  be  converses 
with,  and  ruins  the  character  he  is  so  industrious  to  advance 
by  it.  For  though  his  actions  are  never  so  glorious,  they 
lose  their  lustre  when  they  me  drawn  at  laxge,  and  set  to 
show  by  his  own  hand ;  and  aa  the  world  is  more  apt  to 
find  fault  than  to  commend,  the  boaat  will  probably  be  cen- 
sured when  the  great  action  that  occasioned  it  ia  for- 

Eeaijes,  this  vety  desire  of  fame  is  looked  on  as  a  mean- 
ness and  an  imperfection  in  the  greatest  character.  A  aohd 
and  substantial  greatness  of  soul  looka  down  with  a  ge- 
nerous neglect  on  the  cenaures  and  applauses  of  the  multi- 
tude, and  places  a  man  beyond  the  httle  noise  and  atrife  of 
tongues.  Accordingly  we  find  in  ourselves  a  secret  awe  and 
veneration  for  the  character  of  one  who  moves  above  us  in  a 
regular  and  illustrious  course  of  virtue,  without  any  regard 
to  our  good  or  ill  opinions  of  him,  to  our  reproaches  or  com- 
mendations. As,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  usual  for  ua,  when  wo 
would  take  off  from  the  fame  and  reputation  of  mi  action,  to 
ascribe  it  to  vain-glory,  and  a  desire  of  fame  in  the  actor. 
Kor  is  this  common  judgment  and  opinion  of  mankind  ill 
founded  :  for  certainly  it  denotes  no  great  bravery  of  mind 
to  be  worked  up  to  any  noble  action  by  ao  selfish  a  motive, 
and  to  do  that  out  of  a  deaire  of  iame,  which  we  could  not  be 
prompted  to  by  a  disinterested  love  to  mankind,  or  by  a  ge- 
nerous passion  for  the  glory  of  him  that  made  us. 

Thus  is  fame  a  thing  difficult  to  be  obtained  by  all,  but 
particularly  by  those  who  thirst  after  it,  since  most  men  have 
so  much  either  of  ill-nature  or  of  wariness,  as  not  to  gratify 
and  Bootbe  the  vanity  of  the  ambitious  man ;  and  since  this 



TCiy  thirst  after  fame  naturally  betrays  him  into  such  inde- 
cenciea  aa  are  a  lessening  to  his  reputation,  and  is  itself 
looked  upon  as  a  weaknesa  in  tlie  greatest  eharaeterB. 

In  the  next  place,  fame  is  easily  lost,  and  as  difficult  to  be 
preserved  aa  it  was  at  first  to  be  acquired.  But  this  1  iiiaW 
maibe  the  subject  of  the  following  paper. 

No.  256.    MONDAY,  DECEMBEE  24. 

Thkbe  are  many  passions  and  tempers  of  mind  whicK 
naturally  dispose  us  to  depress  and  yilify  the  merit  of  one 
piBing  in  the  esteem  of  mankind.  All  those  who  made  their 
entrance  into  the  world  with  the  same  advantages,  and  were 
once  looked  on  as  his  eq^uals,  are  apt  to  think  the  fame  of  his 
merits  a  reflection  on  their  own  indeserts ;  and  will  therefore 
take  care  to  reproach  him  with  the  scandal  of  some  past 
action,  or  derogate  from  the  worth  of  the  present,  that  they 
may  still  keep  him  on  the  same  level  with  themselves.  The 
like  kind  of  consideration  often  stirs  up  the  envy  of  such  as 
were  once  his  superiors,  who  thiuk  it  a  detraction  from  their 
merit  to  see  another  get  ground  upon  them,  and  overtake 
them  in  their  pursuits  of  glory  ;  and  will  therefore  endeavour 
to  sink  his  reputation,  that  they  may  the  better  preserve 
their  own.  Those  who  were  once  his  equals,  envy  and  de- 
fame him,  because  they  now  see  him  their  superior;  and 
those  who  were  once  his  superiors,  because  they  look  upon 
him  as  their  equal. 

But  fiirther,  a  man  whose  extraordinEur  reputation  thuB 
lifts  him  up  to  the  notice  and  observation  of  mankind,  draws  a 
multitude  of  eyes  upon  him  that  wiU  narrowly  inspect  every 
partof  him,  consider  him  nicely  in  all  views,  and  not  be  a  little 
pleased  when  they  have  taken  him  in  the  worst  and  most  dis- 
«dvant^:eous  hght.  There  are  many  who  find  a  pleasure  in 
contradicting  the  common  reports  of  fame,  and  in  spreading 
abroad  the  weakness  of  an  exalted  character.  Thev  publish 
their  ill-natiired  discoveries  with  a  secret  pride,  and  apphmd 
theraaelves  for  the  singularity  of  their  judgment,  which  has 
Bearched  deeper  than  others,  detected  what  the  rest  of  tha 

ADDIS05  9  W0BS9. 

worid  hmn  oreriooked,  vid  foimd  &  flsw  in  irliat  the  gfb 
Berality  of  mAnlciod  admire.  Others  there  ar^  who  proclaim 
the  erron  and  infirmities  of  a  great  man  with  an  inward 
Mtiafactioo  and  complacenc;,  if  thejr  discoTer  none  of  the 
like  errors  and  infirmities  in  themeelTes ;  for  while  tfaej  are 
exposing  another's  veakneaeea,  thej  are  tacitly  aimlog  at 
their  own  commesdationB  who  are  not  subject  to  the  like 
infirmities,  and  are  apt  to  be  transported  with  a  secret  kind 
of  vanity,  to  see  themselves  superior  in  some  respects  to  on© 
of  a  sublime  and  celebrated  reputation.  Nay,  it  very  often 
happens,  that  none  are  more  industrious  in  publiahmg  tho 
blemiehea  of  an  extraordinary  reputation,  than  such  as  lie 
open  to  the  same  cenaureB  in  their  ownchuraetera  :  as  either 
hoping  to  excuse  their  own  defects  by  the  authority  of  so 
high  an  example,  or  raising  an  imaginary  applause  to  them- 
edrea  for  resembling  a  person  of  au  esiJted  reputation, 
though  in  the  blaraeaole  parts  of  his  character.  Kail  these 
secret  apringa  of  detraction  fail,  yet  very  ofben  a  vain  ostent- 
ation of  n-it  seta  a  man  on  attacking  an  established  name, 
and  sacrificing  it  to  tho  mirth  and  laughter  of  those  about 
him.  A  satire  or  a  libel  on  one  of  the  common  stamp,  never 
meets  with  that  reception  and  approbation  among  its  readers, 
as  what  is  aimed  at  »  person  whose  merit  places  him  upon  an 
eminence,  and  gives  him  a  more  conspicuous  figure  among 
men,  Whether  it  be  that  we  think  it  shows  greater  art  to 
expose  and  turn  to  rtdicule  a  man  whose  character  seems  bo 
improper  a  subject  for  it,  or  that  we  are  pleased  by  some  im- 

S licit  kind  of  revenge  to  see  him  taken  down  and  humbled  in 
LB  reputation,  and  in  some  measure  reduced  to  our  own  rank, 
who  had  so  far  raised  himself  above  us  in  the  reports  and 
opinions  of  mankind. 

Thus  we  see  how  many  dark  and  intricate  motives  there 
ore  to  detraction  and  dc&ination,  and  how  many  malicioua 
epies  are  searching  into  the  actions  of  a  great  man,  who  is 
not  always  tite  best  prepared  for  so  narrow  an  inspection. 
For  we  may  generally  observe,  that  our  admiration  of  a 
famous  man  leASODS  upon  oiir  nenrcr  ocqimintance  with  him; 
ftud  that  we  seJdom  hear  tlio  description  of  n  celebrated  per- 
son, without  a  catAlo^fiio  of  some  notorious  weaknesses  and 
iufinnitioB,  The  reiison  may  be.  because  any  little  slip  ia 
more  eonspieiioiiB  auJ  observnhlc  in  his  ciniduct  than  in 
another's,  a*  it  ii"!!!!!.  of  a  pi(Vi'\\ith  ihercat  of  hiacliaractw^   ' 

iNo.  156.  THI   SFEOTATOB 

or  becauee  it  ie  impoBaible  for  a  man  at  tKe  same  tim?  to  be 
attentive  to  the  more  important  part  of  hia  life,  and  to  keep 
a  watchfnl  eye  over  all  tbe  inconsidejable  eircumatances  of 
hia  behfliTiour  and  conversation ;  or  beeause,  as  v?e  have  be- 
fore observed,  the  same  temper  of  mind  which  inclines  iia  to 
a  desire  of  fame,  naturally  betrays  ns  into  such  slips  aoi.' 
imwarineaBeB  as  are  not  incident  to  men  of  a  contrary  dis- 

After  all  it  must  be  confesBed,  that  a  noble  and  triumphant 
merit  often  breaks  through  imd  dissipates  these  little  spots 
and  Bullies  in  its  reputation ;  but  if  by  a  mistaken  pursuit 
after  feme,  or  through  humau  infirmity,  any  false  slep  he 

B  in  the  more  momentous  concerns  of  life,  the  whole 
scheme  of  ambitious  designs  ia  broken  and  disappointed. 
The  smaller  stains  and  blemishes  may  die  away  and  disap- 
pear amidst  tbo  brightness  that  surrounds  them ;  but  a  blot 
of  a  deeper  nature  casta  a  shade  on  all  the  other  beauties, 
and  darkeoa  the  whole  character.  How  difficult,  therefore, 
ia  it,  to  preserve  a  great  name,  when  he  that  has  acquired  it 
o  obnosioua  to  such  little  weaknesses  and  infirmities  as 
are  no  small  diminution  to  it  when  discovered,  especially 
^hen  they  are  so  industriously  proclaimecl,  and  aggravated 
by  such  as  were  once  his  superiors  or  equals ;  by  such  a*j 
■would  set  to  show  their  judgment  or  their  wit ;  and  by  such 
as  are  guilty  or  innocent  of  the  some  slips  or  misconducts  in 
their  own  behaviour. 

But  were  there  none  of  these  dispositions  in  others  to 
censure  a  famous  man.  nor  any  such  miscarriages  in  liimaelt', 
yet  would  he  meet  witt  no  small  trouble  in  keeping  up  his 
reputation  in  all  its  height  and  splendour.  There  must  be 
always  a  noble  train  of  a<^tions  to  preserve  his  fame  in  life 
and  motion.  For  when  it  is  once  at  a  stand,  it  naturally 
flags  and  languishes.  Admiration  is  a  very  short-hved  pas- 
aion,  that  immediately  decays  upon  growing  familiar  with  its 
olnect,  unless  it  be  stdl  fed  with  ftesh  discoveries,  and  kept 
alive  by  a  new  perpetual  succession  of  miracles  rising  up  to 

iew.  And  even  the  greatest  actions  of  a  celebrated  per- 
son labour  under  this  disadvantage,  that  however  surprising 
and  extraordinary  they  may  be,  they  are  no  more  than  what 
are  eipected  from  him ;  but  on  the  contrarv,  if  tbey  fall  any 
tbing  oelow  the  opinion  that  is  conceived  of  him,  though 


oi  din  J 

titn-  miglit  raise  the  ■^"■'^^—  of  Muttter,  tbey 
Butum  to  his. 

One  would  think  there  abooM  be  eomething  woaderfiilhr 
pleading  in  the  powession  of  Cuoe.  that,  notwithst&ndiiig  ill 
these  moiti^'ing  considerstiona,  can  engage  a  man  in  so  des- 
per^e  a  punuit ;  Mid  yet  if  we  consider  rfje  little  ha] 
that  att«nds  a  great  character,  and  the  multitude  r 
quietudes  to  wnjch  the  desire  of  it  subjects  an  ambitit 
mind,  one  would  be  rtill  the  more  surprised  to  see  80 
restless  candidates  for  glory. 

Ambition  raises  a  secret  tumult  in  the  eoul,  it  inflames  the 
mind,  and  puts  it  into  a  violent  hurry  of  thought ;  it  ia  atill 
reaching  aiter  an  empty,  imaginary  good,  that  has  not  in  it 
the  power  to  abate  or  satisfy  it.  Most  other  things  we  long 
for  can  allay  the  cravings  of  their  proper  sense,  and  for  a 
while  set  the  appetite  at  rest :  but  mmo  ia  a  good  so  wholly 
foreign  to  our  natures,  that  we  have  no  faculty  in  the  soul 
adapted  to  it,  nor  any  organ  in  the  body  to  relish  it;  an 
object  of  desire  placed  out  of  the  possibility  of  fruition.  It 
may  indeed  fill  the  mind  for  a  whUe  with  a  giddy  kind  of 
pleasure,  but  it  is  such  a  pleiieuro  as  makes  a  man  restless 
and  uneasy  under  it ;  and  which  does  not  so  much  satisfy  the 
present  tliirst,  as  it  excites  fresh  desires,  and  seta  the  soul 
on  new  onterprisoa.  For  how  few  ambitious  men  are  there, 
who  have  got  as  much  fame  as  they  desired,  and  whose  thirst 
aftpr  it  has  not  bt^en  as  eager  in  the  very  height  of  their  r&- 
putation,  as  it  was  before  they  became  known  and  en  ' 
among  men  I  There  ia  not  any  circumstance  in  CsBsar' 
raetor  which  givos  me  a  greater  idea  of  him,  than  a  sayiny* 
whii'li  (lii'oro  tells  us  ho  frequently  made  use  of  in  private 
riiiiviirf-iilinii,  "That  he  wn«  aatiafied  with  his  share  of  life 
iiuil  t'tiui.'."  St  Mfi's  «*/  mi  nahtram,  vel  adghriam  vixime. 
Many,  iuilceU,  have  given  over  their  pursuits  after  fame,  bat 
that  linn  proeeedod  either  from  the  diBappointments  they 
havti  met  lu  it,  or  front  their  experience  of  the  little  plea> 
•un>  whieh  nttenda  it,  or  from  the  better  informations  or 
natural  coldness  of  i>ld  ft)(6 ;  but  seldom  from  a  full  satia&o- 
tion  Btid  acipiicseeneo  in  their  presi-nt  enjoyments  of  it. 

Nor  is  fiuiiu  only  unsatislVing  in  ilself,  but  the  desire  of 
it.  lay*  UH  onoii  to  iniuiy  neci-l<mtal  troubles,  whioh  those  are 
frw'froiH  wlm  hdw  no  such  l^-uder  regard  for  it.  How  often 
in  the  an^hitioits  mMi  cast  down  and  disappointed,  if  he  i^ 

r  rft-'J 

tG.  THB  BPECTATOE.  168 

ceirea  no  praise  where  he  expected  it !  S^ay,  how  often  'a  he 
mortified  with  the  very  praises  he  receivee,  if  they  do  not 
rise  so  high  as  he  thinks  they  ought !  which  they  seldom  do, 
iinleaa  increased  by  flattery,  eince  few  mea  have  so  good  an 
opinion  of  us  ae  we  have  of  ourselves.  But  if  the  ambitiouB 
man  can  he  ao  much  grieved  even  with  praise  itself  how 
will  he  be  able  to  bear  up  under  scandal  and  defamation  ? 
Eor  the  same  temper  of  mmd  which  makes  him  desire  fame, 
makes  him  hate  reproach.  If  he  can  be  transported  with 
the  eitraordinary  praises  of  men,  he  will  he  as  much  de- 
jected by  their  censures.  How  little  therefore  is  the  happi- 
ness of  an  ambitious  man,  who  gives  every  one  a  dominion 
over  it,  who  thus  subjects  himself  to  the  good  or  iil  speeches 
of  others,  and  puts  it  in  the  power  of  every  malicious  tongue 
to  throw  him  into  a  fit  of  melancholy,  and  destroy  his  natural 
rest  and  repose  of  mind !  Especially  when  we  consider  that 
the  world  la  more  apt  to  censure  than  applaud,  and  himself 
filler  of  imperfections  than  virtues. 

We  may  further  observe,  that  such  a  man  will  be  more 
grieved  for  the  loss  of  fame,  than  he  could  have  been  pleased 
with  the  enjoyment  of  it.  For  though  the  presence  of  this 
imaginary  good  cannot  make  us  happy,  the  absence  of  it  may 
make  ua  miserable ;  because  in  the  enjoyment  of  an  object 
we  only  find  that  share  of  pleasure  which  it  is  capable  of 
giving  us,  but  in  the  loss  of  it  we  do  not  proportion  our 
grief  to  the  real  value  it  bears,  but  to  the  vdue  our  fancies 
and  imaginations  set  upon  it. 

Bo  inconsiderable  is  tbe  satisfaction  that  fame  brings 
along  with  it,  and  ao  great  the  disquietudes  to  which  it  makes 
us  liable.  The  desire  of  it  stirs  up  very  uneasy  motions  in 
the  mind,  and  is  rather  inflamed  than  satisfied  by  the  pre- 
aence  of  the  thing  desired.  The  enjoyment  of  it  brings  out 
very  little  pleasure,  though  the  loss  or  want  of  it  be  very 
sensible  and  afflicting;  and  even  thia  little  happiness  is  so 
very  precarious,  that  it  wholly  depends  on  the  will  of  others. 
We  are  not  only  tortured  by  the  reproaches  which  are 
offered  ub,  but  are  disappointed  by  the  silence  of  men  when 
it  IB  unexpected,  and  humbled  even  by  their  praiseB. 

Xo.  257,    TITESDAT.  DECEMBER  25. 

—  Ovx  lUii  Aibc 
'0<pSa\ii6Q-  iyyis  ff  im-i  kbI  rapdiv  vivif.     IncEHT.  EX  Bros. 

That  I  might  not  lose  myEelf  upon  a  subject  of  ao  great 
extent  oa  that  of  fame,  I  have  treated  it  in  a  particular  order 
and  method.  I  have  first  of  all  coDeidercd  tlie  reasons  y/hy 
Providence  may  have  implanted  in  our  minde  such  a  prin- 
ciple of  action.  I  have  in  the  nest  place  shown,  from  many 
considerations,  first,  that  fame  is  a  thing  difficult  to  be  ob- 
tained, and  eaajly  Inat ;  secondly,  that  it  brings  the  amhitioue 
man  yery  little  happiness,  but  subjects  him  to  much  imexsi- 
neas  and  dissatisfaction.  I  shall  in  the  last  place  sbow, 
that  it  hinders  us  from  obtaining  an  end  which  we  have 
abilities  to  acquire,  and  which  is  accompanied  with  fulneaa 
of  satisfaction.  I  need  not  tell  ray  reader,  that  I  mean  by 
this  end,  that  happiness  which  is  reserved,  for  us  in  anothe*. 
world,  which  every  one  has  abilities  to  procure,  and  which, 
will  bring  along  with  it  fulness  of  joy  and  pleasures  for  eveiw! 

How  the  pursuit  after  fame  may  hinder  us  in  the  at- 
tainment of  this  great  end,  I  shall  leave  the  reader  to  collect 
fi^m  the  three  following  considerations. 

First,  because  the  strong  desire  of  fame  breeds  several 
vicious  habits  in  the  mind. 

Secondly,  because  many  of  those  actions,  which  are  apt  to^ 
procure  fame,  ai«  not  m.  their  nature  conducive  to  th» 
our  ultimate  happiness. 

Thirdly,  because  if  we  should  allow  the  same  actions  t9 
be  the  proper  instruments  both  of  acquiring  fame,  and  trf 
procuring  this  happiness,  ihej  would  nevertheless  fail  in  thei 
attainment  of  thia  last  end,  if  they  proceeded  from  a  deairfl. 
of  the  first. 

These  three  propoaitions  are  self-evident  to  ttiost 
reraed  in  speculations  of  morality.  For  which  reason  I  shall:' 
not  enlarge  upon  them,  but  proceed  to  a  point  of  the  sams , 
nature,  which  may  open  to  na  a  more  uncommon  field  of 

From  what  haa  been  already  observed,  I  think  we  may 
make  a  natural  conclusion,  that  it  i-^  the  greatest  folly  to 
■eek  the  praise  or  approbation  of  anv  being,  besides  the  Su- 


No.  SST. 


preme,  and  that  for  these  two  reaaona,  heoauae  no  other 
being  can  make  a  right  judgmeiit  of  us,  and  eateem  us  ac- 
cording to  our  merits ;  and  because  we  can  procure  no  con- 
siderable benefit  or  advantage  from  the  esteem  and  approba- 
tion of  any  other  being. 

In  the  first  phice,  no  other  being  can  make  a  right  judg- 
ment of  us,  and  esteem  us  according  to  our  meritB.  Created 
beings  see  nothing  but  our  outside,  and  can  therefore  only 
frame  a  judgment  of  us  from  our  esterior  actions  and  be- 
haviour ;  but  how  imfit  these  are  to  give  ua  a  right  notion 
of  each  other's  perfections,  may  appear  from  several  con- 
siderations. There  are  many  virtues,  which  in  their  own 
nature  are  incapable  of  any  outward  representation :  many 
sQent  perfeeiiona  in  the  soul  of  a  good  man,  which  are  great 
ornaments  to  human  nature,  but  not  able  to  discover  them- 
Belvea  to  the  knowledge  of  others ;  they  are  transacted  in 
private,  without  noiae  or  ahow,  and  are  only  visible  to  the 
great  Searcher  of  hearts.  What  actions  can  express  the  en- 
tire puritv  of  thought  which  refines  and  sanctifies  a  virtuous 
manp  Tliat  secret  rest  and  contentednesa  of  mind,  which 
givea  him  a  perfect  enjoyment  of  his  present  condition? 
That  inward  pleasure  and  complacency,  which  he  feels  in 
doing  good  ?  That  delight  and  satisfaction,  which  he  takes 
in  the  prosperity  and  happiness  of  another  ?  These  and  the 
like  virtues  are  the  hidden  beauties  of  a,  soul,  the  secret  graces 
of  which  cannot  be  discovered  by  a  mortal  eye,  but  make  the 
soul  lovely  and  precious  in  His  siglit,  from  whom  no  secrets 
are  concealed.  Again,  there  are  many  virtues  which  want 
an  opportunity  of  exerting  and  showing  themselves  in  ac- 
tions. Every  virtue  requires  time  and  place,  a  proper  object, 
tnd  a  fit  conjunctiu^  oi  circumstances,  for  the  due  eiercise 
of  it.  A  state  of  poverty  obscures  all  the  virtues  of  liberality 
and  munificence.  The  patience  and  fortitude  of  a  martyr  or 
confessor  lie  concealed  in  the  flourishingtimea  of  Christianity. 
Some  virtues  are  only  seen  in  aflliction,  and  some  in  pros- 

Sirity;  some  in  a  pnvate,  and  others  in  a  public  capacity, 
at  the  great  Sovereign  of  the  world  beholds  every  perfec- 
tion in  its  obscurity,  and  not  only  sees  what  we  do,  but  what 
we  would  do.  He  views  our  behaviour  in  every  concurrence 
of  affairs,  and  sees  ua  engaged  in  all  the  possibilities  of 
action.  He  discovers  the  martyr  and  confeaaor  without  ' 
ttial  of  flames  and  tortures,  and  will  hereafter  entitle  ini 


Ann  I  box's  wobkb. 

£o  tbe  reward  of  actions,  which  they  bad  never  the  oppor- 
tuBity  of  performing.  Another  reaaon  why  men  cannot 
form  a  right  judgment  of  ua  is,  because  the  same  actionB 
may  be  aimed  at  different  ends,  and  arise  from  quite  contraiy 
principlea.  Actions  are  of  so  miit  a  nature,  and  bo  fiill  m 
circumstances,  that  as  men  pry  into  them  more  or  less,  or 
observe  aome  parts  more  than  others,  they  take  different 
hints,  and  put  eontrsry  interpretations  on  them ;  so  that  tbo 
same  actions  may  represent  a  man  as  hypocritical  and  design- 
ing to  one,  which  make  him  appear  a  saint  or  hero  to  another. 
He,  therefore,  who  looks  upon  the  soul  through  its  outn&rd 
actions,  often  sees  it  through  a  deceitful  medium,  which  is  apt 
to  discolour  and  pervert  the  object:  ao  that  on  this  account- 
alao,  he  is  the  only  proper  judge  of  our  perfections  who  does 
not  guess  at  the  smcenty  of  our  intentions  from  the  goodness 
of  our  actions,  but  weighs  the  goodness  of  our  actions  by 
the  sincerity  of  our  intentions. 

But  further ;  it  is  impossible  for  outward  actions  to  repre- 
sent the  perfections  of  the  soul,  because  they  can  never  show 
the  strength  of  those  principles  from  whence  they  proceed. 
TLey  are  not  adequate  espressions  of  our  virtues,  and  can 
only  show  us  what  habits  are  in  the  soiil,  without  discovering 
the  degree  and  perfection  of  such  habits.  They  are  at  best 
but  weak  resemblances  of  our  intentions,  faint  and  imper- 
lect  copies,  that  may  acquaint  us  with  the  general  design, 
but  can  never  express  the  beauty  and  life  of  the  original. 
But  the  great  Judge  of  aU  the  earth  knowa  every  different 
state  and  degree  of  human  improvement,  from  those  weak 
stirrings  and  tendencies  of  the  will  wliich  have  not  yet 
formed  themselves  into  regular  purposes  and  designs,  to  the 
hist  entire  finisliing  and  consummation  of  a  good  habit.  He 
beholds  the  first  imperfect  rudiments  of  a  virtue  in  the  soul, 
and  keeps  a  watchful  eye  over  it  in  all  its  progress,  until  it 
has  received  every  grace  it  is  capable  of,  and  appears  in  its 
full  beauty  and  perfection.  Thus  we  see  that  none  but  the 
Supreme  Being  can  esteem  us  according  to  our  proper  merits, 
since  all  others  must  judge  of  us  from  our  outwtu^i  actiona, 
which  can  never  give  them  a  just  estimate  of  us,  since  there 
are  many  perfections  of  a  man  which  are  not  capable  of 
appearing  in  actions  ;  many  which,  allowing  no  natural  in- 
capacity of  showing  themselves,  want  an  opportunity  of 
doing  it  i  or  should  they  all  meet  with  an  opportunity  of 


ai^airing  by  actions,  yet  those  nctiona  may  be  miBiiiter- 
preted,  and  applied  to  wrong  principles ;  or  thongb  they 
plainly  discoyered  the  principles  from  whence  they  pro- 
ceeded, they  could  never  show  the  degree,  etrength,  and  per- 
fection of  those  principles. 

And  as  the  Supreme  Being  is  the  only  proper  judge  of  our 
perfections,  so  is  he  the  only  fit  rewarder  of  them.  This 
IB  a  consideration  that  comes  home  to  our  interest,  as  the 
other  adapts  itself  to  our  ambition.  And  what  could  the 
most  aspiring  or  the  most  sellish  man  desire  more,  were  he 
to  form  the  notion  of  a  being  to  whom  he  would  recommend 
iimaelf,  than  such  a  knowledge  as  can  discover  the  least  ap- 
pearance of  perfection  in  him,  and  such  a  goodness  as  will 
proportion  a  reward  to  it  ? 

Let  the  ambitious  man,  therefore,  t-jm  all  hiB  desire  of 
&me  this  way ;  and,  that  he  may  propose  to  himself  a  fame 
worthy  of  his  ambition,  let  him  consider,  that  if  he  employs 
his  abilities  to  the  best  advantage,  the  time  will  come,  when 
the  Supreme  Governor  of  the  world,  the  great  Judge  of 
mankind,  who  sees  every  degree  of  perfection  in  others,  and 

Eosaesses  all  possible  perfection  in  himself,  shall  proclaim 
is  worth  before  men  and  angels,  and  pronounce  to  him,  in 
the  presence  of  the  whole  creation,  that  best  and  moat  signi- 
ficant of  applauses,  "  Well  done,  thou  good  and  fiiithful  ser- 
Tant,  enter  thou  into  thy  Master's  joy." 

Ho.  261.    8ATCEDAY,  DECEMBEE  29. 

I'd/ioc  ydp  AvBpwirowa-  litraiov  jcarov.     FsiB.  vet.  Poet. 

Mr  father,  whom  I  mentioned  in  my  first  speculation,  and 
■whom  I  must  always  name  with  honour  and  gratitude,  has 
very  frequently  talked  to  me  upon  the  subject  of  marriage. 
I  was  in  my  younger  years  engaged,  partly  by  his  advice, 
and  partly  by  my  own  inclinations,  in  the  courtship  of  a 
person  who  had  a  great  deal  of  beauty,  and  did  not  at  my 
first  approaches  seem  to  have  any  aversion  to  me ;  but  as  my 
natural  taciturnity  hindered  me  from  showing  myself  to  the 
best  advantage,  sue  by  degrees  began  to  look  upon  me  as  a 
very  silly  fellow,  and  being  resolved  to  regard  merit  more 
thim  anything  else  in  the  persons  who  made  tbeir  applica- 


tionv  to  her,  ahc  married  a  captain  of  dragoons  wbo 
to  be  beating  up  for  recruits  in  thoae  parts. 

This  unlucky  accident  has  giren  tne  an  aversion  to  pi 
fellows  ever  since,  and  discouraged  me   from   trying 
fortune  with  the  fair  sex.   The  obeervatiuns  which  I  mad 
thia  conjuncture,  and  the  repeated  advices  which  I  reoeivt 
at  tliat  time  from  the  good  old  man  above-mentioned,  havi 
produced  the  following  Essay  upon  Love  and  Marriage.        , 

The  pleaaanteat  part  of  a  man's  life  is  generally  tbsl 
which  passes  in  courtship,  provided  his  passion  be  ainoen^ 
and  the  party  beloved  kmdwith  discretion.  Love,  dedwi 
hope,  all  the  pleasing  motions  of  the  soul,  rise  in  the  pursuit. 

It  is  easier  for  au  artful  man,  who  is  not  in  love,  to  pe] 
Buode  his  mistress  he  has  a  passion  for  her,  and  to  sui 
in  his  pursuits,  than  for  one  who  loves  with  the  ^ 
violence.  True  love  hath  ten  thousand  griefs,  impatienc 
and  resentnienta,  that  render  a  man  uiiamiahle  in  the  eyea 
the  person  whose  affection  he  solicits ;  besides  that,  it  sio! 
bis  figure,  gives  him  fears,  apprchenaiana,  and  poorness  ol 
spirit,  and  often  makes  him  appear  ridiculous  where  he  hai 
a  mind  to  recommend  himaelf. 

Those  marriages  generally  abound  most  with  love  and  con- 
stancy, that  are  preceded  by  a  long  courtship.  The  passion 
should  strike  root  and  gather  strength  before  marriage  be 
grafted  on  it.  A  long  course  of  hopes  and  expectations  fixei 
the  idea  in  our  minds,  and  habituates  us  to  a  fondness  of  Iho 
person  beloved. 

There  is  nothing  of  so  great  importance  to  us,  as  the  good 
qualities  of  one  to  whom  we  join  ourselves  for  life  ;  they  do 
not  only  make  our  present  state  agreeable,  but  often  deter- 
mine our  happiness  to  all  eternity.  Where  the  choice  is  left 
to  friends,  tlie  chief  point  under  consideration  is  an  estate: 
where  the  parties  choose  for  themselves,  their  thoughts  turn 
most  upon  the  person.  They  have  both  their  reasons.  The 
first  would  procure  many  conreniences  and  pleasures  of  life 
to  the  party  whose  interests  they  espouse ;  and  at  the  same 
time  may  hope  that  the  wealth  of  their  friend  will  turn  to 
their  own  credit  and  advantage.  The  others  are  preparing 
for  themselves  a  perpetual  feast.  A  good  person  does  not 
only  raise,  but  continue  love,  and  breeds  a  secret  pleasure 
and  complacency  in  the  beholder,  when  the  first  heats  of  de- 
sire are  extingmahed.     It  puts  the  wile  or  husband  in  coim- 

tenance  both  among  friends  and  strangers,  and  generally  flUs 
tiiB  family  with  a  healthy  and  beautiiul  race  of  children. 

I  Rhonld  prefer  a  woman  that  ia  agreeable  in  my  own  eye, 
■nd  not  deformed  in  that  of  the  world,  to  a  celebr^ited 
beauty.  If  you  marry  one  remarkably  beautiful,  you  tnuat 
have  a  violent  passion  for  her,  or  you  have  not  the  propet 
taste  of  hor  charma ;  and  if  you  have  such  a  pasBion  for  her, 
it  ia  odda  but  it  will  be  imhittered  with  feara  and  jealoLiaies. 

Good-nature,  and  evennesa  of  temper,  will  give  you  an 
easy  companion  for  life ;  virtue  and  good  sense,  an  agreeable 
friend;  love  and  conataney,  a  good  wile  or  huaband.  Where 
Iwe  meet  one  person  with  ail  tbeae  accomplishments,  we  find 
sn  hundred  without  any  one  of  them.  The  world,  notivith- 
fltanding,  ia  more  intent  on  trains  and  equipages,  and  all  the 
ehowy  parts  of  life  ;  we  love  rather  to  dazzle  tlie  multitude, 
tiian  consult  our  proper  interest ;  and,  as  I  have  elsewhere 
observed,  it  is  one  of  the  most  unaccountable  passions  of  hu- 
Inan  nature,  that  we  are  at  greater  pains  to  appear  easy  and 
happy  to  others,  than  really  to  make  ourselvea  bo.  Of  all 
dieparities,  that  in  humour  makes  the  moat  unhappy  mai^ 
riagea,  yet  scarce  enters  into  our  thoughts  at  the  contract- 
ing of  them.  Several  that  are  in  this  respect  unequally 
yoked,  and  uneasy  for  life,  with  a  person  of  a  particular 
character,  might  have  been  pleased  and  happy  with  a  peraon 
of  a  contrary  one,  notwithatanding  they  are  both  perhaps 
•equally  virtuous  and  laudable  in  their  kind. 

Before  marriage  we  cannot  be  too  inquisitive  and  discern- 
ing in  the  faults  of  the  person  beloved,  nor  after  it  too  dim- 
Bighted  and  superficial.  However  perfect  and  accomplished 
the  person  appears  to  you  at  a  distance,  you  will  find  many 
blemiabes  and  imperfections  in  her  humour,  upon  a  more 
intimate  acquaintance,  which  yon  never  discovered  or  per- 
haps suspected.  Here,  therefore,  discretion  and  good-na- 
ture are  to  show  their  strength ;  the  first  will  hinder  your 
thoughts  from  dwelling  on  what  ia  disagreeable  j  the  other 
will  raise  in  you  all  the  tenderness  of  compassion  and  hu- 
manifr,  and  by  degrees  soften  those  very  imperfections  into 

Marriage  enlarges  the  scene  of  our  happiness  and  miseries. 
A  marriage  of  love  is  pleasant ;  a  marringe  of  interest  easy ; 
and  a  marriage  where  both  meet  happy.  A  happy  marriafce 
has  in  it  all  the  pleasures  of  friendabip,  all  the  enjoyma 

of  Betue  and  reason,  aud  indeed,  all  tlie  sweets  of  lifi^l 
Nothing  is  a  greater  mark  of  a,  degenerate  and  vicioua  ago, 
than  the  common  ridicule  which  pasaea  on  this  state  of  iJfe. 
It  ia,  indeed,  only  happy  in  those  who  can  look  down  with 
acorn  or  neglect  on  the  unpieties  of  the  timea,  and  tread  the 
paths  of  life  together  in  a  constant,  uniform  courae  of  virtue. 

No.  262.    MONT>AT,  DEOEMBEE  31. 

I  THINK  myself  highly  obliged  to  the  public  for  their  kiiid> 
acceptance  of  a  paper  wbich  visita  them  every  morning,  anit' 
haa  ia  it  none  of  those  seasonings  that  recommend  ao  many 
of  the  writings  which  are  in  vogue  among  ub. 

Ab,  on  the  one  side,  my  paper  baa  not  in  it  a  single  word 
of  newa,  a  reflection  in  pohtics,  nor  a  stroke  of  party;  so, 
on  the  other,  there  are  no  faahionahle  touches  of  infidelity, 
no  obscene  ideaa,  no  satires  upon  priesthood,  marriage,  and 
the  like  popular  topics  of  ridicule ;  no  private  scandal,  nor 
anything  that  may  tend  to  the  defemation  of  particular 
persons,  faiailiea,  or  societiea. 

There  is  not  one  of  theae  above-mentioned  subjecta  that 
would  not  sell  a  very  indifferent  paper,  could  I  think  of  gra- 
tiiyiag  the  public  by  such  mean  and  base  methods ;  out, 
notwithstanding  I  have  rejected  everything  that  savours  of 
party,  everything  that  la  loose  and  immoral,  and  everything 
that  might  create  uneasiness  in  the  minda  of  particular  pei> 
sons,  I  find  that  the  demand  of  my  papera  has  increaaea 
every  month  since  their  first  appearance  in  the  world.  This 
does  not,  perhaps,  reflect  so  much  honour  upon  myself,  as  on 
my  readera,  who  give  a  much  greater  attention  to  discourses 
of  virtue  and  morality,  than  ever  I  espected,  or  indeed  could 

When  I  broke  looee  from  that  great  body  of  writers  who 
have  employed  their  wit  and  parts  in  propagating'  of  vice 
Bud  irreligion,  I  did  not  question  but  I  should  be  treated  as 
ao  odd  kind  of  fellow  that  had  a  mind  to  appear  singular  in 
my  way  of  writing :  hut  the  general  reception  I  have  found, 

'  Wlicn  n  pnrtioipio  is  uaed  instead  of  a,  Bubatmitive,  the  purticle  tht 
■hnnlil  proiiudo  It.     Wo  niuy  either  aay  — in  propajudtij  tit«, 
pivpngatiiig  ^  viat  i  hux  nai,  m  propagating  of  vice. 


convinces  me  that  tbe  world  is  not  bo  corrupt  as  we  are  apt 
to  imagine  ;  and  that  if  those  men  of  parts  ivho  have  heen 
■employed  in  vitiating  the  age  had  endearoured  to  rectify 
and  amend  it,  they  needed  not  have  aacriliced  their  good 
Benee  and  virtue  to  their  fame  and  reputation.  No  man  is 
BO  sunk  in  vice  and  ignorance,  hut  there  are  still  some  hidden 
eeeds  of  goodneBs  and  knowledge  in  him ;  which  give  him  a 
elish  of  such  reflections  and  speculations  as  have  an  aptuesti 
:o  improve  the  mind,  and  to  make  the  heart  better. 

I  have  shown  in  a  former  paper,  with  how  much  care  I 
have  avoided  all  such  thoughts  as  are  loose,  ohscene,  or  im- 
moral ;  and  I  helieve  my  reader  would  still  think  the  hetter 
of  me,  if  he  knew  the  pains  I  am  at  in  qualifying  what  I 
write  after  such  a  manner,  that  nothing  may  be  interoreted 
aa  aimed  at  private  persons.  For  this  reason,  when  I  draw 
(my  faulty  character,  I  consider  all  those  persons  to  whom 
the  malice  of  tbe  world  may  possibly  apply  it,  and  take  care 
to  daah  it  with  such  particiilar  circumstaneea  as  may  prevent 
bH  sucli  ill-natured  apphcations.  If  I  write  anything  on  a 
black  man,  I  run  over  in  my  mind  al!  the  eminent  persons  in 
the  nation  who  are  of  that  complexion :  when  I  place  an  ima- 
ginary name  at  the  head  of  a  character,  I  examine  every 
syllable  and  letter  of  it,  that  it  may  not  bear  any  resemblance 
to  one  that  is  real.  I  know  very  well  the  value  which  every 
man  seta  upon  hia  reputation,  and  bow  painful  it  ia  to  be 
eiposed  to  the  mirth  and  derision  of  the  puhhc,  and  should 
therefore  acorn  to  divert  ray  reader  at  the  expense  of  any 
private  man. 

Aa  I  have  been  thus  tender  of  every  particular  person's 
(reputation,  ao  I  have  taken  more  than  ordinary  care  not  to 

f've  oflence  to  those  who  appear  in  the  hieher  figures  of  life, 
would  not  make  myself  merry  even  with  a  piece  of  paste- 
j^ard  that  is  invested  with  a  public  character ;  for  which 
reason  I  have  never  glanced  upon  the  late  designed  proces- 
lion  of  his  Holiness  and  his  attendanta,  notwithstanding  it 
pight  have  aftbrded  matter  to  many  ludicrous  speculations. 
Mnong  those  advantages  which  the  publio  may  reap  from 
ids  paper,  it  ia  not  the  least,  that  it  draws  men's  minda '  off 
irom  the  bitterness  of  party,  and  furnishes  them  with  suh- 

Addiaun  tiliuuld  hati! 

kviabed  afl'W 

appears  in  ft  ^ 

It  ia  observed  among  birds,  that  K^atiire  has  lavished 
her  onmmenta  upon  the  male,  who  very  often  appears  " 
moat  beautiful  head-drcfs ;  whether  it  be  a  crest,  a  comb,  a 
tuft  of  feathers,  or  a  natural  little  plume,  erected  like  a  kind 
of  pinnacle  on  the  veiy  top  of  the  head.  Aa  Nature,  on  the 
contrary,  has  poured  out  her  eharma  in  the  greatest  abund- 
ance upon  the  female  part  of  our  species,  so  they  are  very 
assiduouH  in  bestowing  upon  themaelvea  the  finest  garnitures 
of  art.  The  peacock,  in  all  hia  pride,  doea  not  display  half 
the  colours  that  appear  in  the  garments  of  a  British  lady, 
when  she  is  dresaed  either  for  a  ball  or  a  birth-day. 

But  to  return  to  our  female  heads.  The  ladies  have  been' 
for  some  time  in  a  kind  of  moulting  aeaaon,  with  regard  to' 
that  part  of  their  dresa,  having  cast  great  quantitiea  of  rib- 
bon. We,  and  cambric,  and  in  some  measure  reduced  that 
part  of  the  human  figure  to  the  beautiful  globular  form  which 
13  natural  to  it.  We  have  fot  a  great  while  expected  what 
kind  of  ornament  would  be  aubatituted  in  the  place  of  those 
antiquated  commodes.  But  our  female  projectors  were  all 
the  last  summer  so  taken  up  with  the  improvement  of  their 

eettieoats,  that  they  had  not  time  to  attend  to  anything  else : 
ut'  having  at  length  sufficiently  adorned  their  lower  parts, 
they  now  begin  to  turn  their  thoughts  upon  the  other  ei- 
tremity,  as  well  remembering  the  old  kitchen  proverb,  That 
if  you  light  a  fireat  both  ends,  the  middle  will  sliift  for  itself. 
I  am  engaged  in  this  speculation  by  a  eight  which  I  lately 
met  with  at  the  opera.  As  I  was  staa£ng  in  the  hinder 
part  of  the  box,  I  took  notice  of  a  httle  cluster  of  women 
sitting  together  in  the  prettiest  coloured  hooda  that  I  ever 
saw.  One  of  them  was  blue,  another  yellow,  and  another 
philomot  ;^  the  fourth  was  of  a  piak  colour,  and  the  fifth  of 
a  pale  green.  I  looked  with  as  much  pleasure  upon  this 
little  party-coloured  assembly,  aa  upon  a  bed  of  tulips,  and 
did  not  know  at  first  whether  it  mignt  not  be  an  embasay  of 
Indian  queens ;  but  upon  my  going  about  into  the  pit,  and 
taking  tnem  in  front,  I  was  immediately  undeceived,  and  aaw 
BO  much  beauty  in  every  face,  that  I  found  them  all  to  be 

'  But,  began  this  aentence,  and  therefore  can  have  no  buainess 
One  of  them  should  be  omilted  :  if  tlio  Iml,  n  new  aent«nc8  should 
■t  Iti*  place.     But  I  think  Ihe^rit  had  better  been  Etnick  out. 

'  Fhiloinof,  a  faint,  bro\™iBh  yellow,  like  that  of  a  dead  leaf.  "  Fmdib 


English.  Sueli  eyes  and  lips,  cheeks  and  forebeada,  could  be 
the  growth  of  no  other  country.  The  complesion  of  their 
facea  hindered  me  from  observing  any  farthe-T  the  colour  of 
their  hooda,  though  I  could  easily  perceive  by  tha,t  unspeak- 
able satiBfaction  which  appeared  m  their  looks,  that  their 
own  thoughts  were  wholly  taken  up  on  those  pretty  orna- 
ments they  wore  upon  their  heada. 

I  am  informed  that  this  fashion  spreads  daily,  insomuch 
that  the  Whig  and  Tory  ladies  begin  already  to  hang  out 
different  colours,  and  to  show  their  principles  in  their  head- 
dress. Kay,  if  I  may  believe  my  fnend  Will.  Honeycomb, 
there  is  a  certain  old  coquette  of  his  acquaintance,  who  in- 
tends to  appear  very  suddenly  in  a  rainbow  hood,  like  the 
Iris  in  Dryden's  Virgil,  not  queationing  but  that  among  such 
a  variety  of  colours  she  shall  have  a  charm  for  every  heart. 

My  friend  "Will.,  who  very  much  values  himself  upon  his 
great  insights  into  gallantry,  tells  me,  that  he  can  already 
guess  at  the  humour  a  lady  is  in  hv  her  hood,  as  the  cour- 
tiers of  Morocco  know  the  disposition  of  their  present  em- 
peror by  the  colour  of  the  dress  which  he  puts  on.  When 
Melesinda  wraps  her  head  in  flame  colour,  her  heart  is  set 
upon  execution.  When  she  covers  it  with  purple,  I  would 
not,  says  he,  advise  her  lover  to  approach  her ;  but  if  she 
appears  in  white,  it  is  peace,  and  ne  may  hand  her  out  of 
her  box  with  safety. 

Will,  informs  me  likewise,  that  these  hoods  may  be  used 
as  signals.  Why  else,  says  he,  does  Cornelia  always  put  on 
a  black  hood  when  her  husband  is  gone  into  the  country  ? 

Such  are  my  friend  Honejcomo's  dreams  of  gallantry. 
For  my  own  part,  I  impute  this  diversity  of  colours  in  the 
hoods  to  the  diversity  of  complexion  in  the  facea  of  my  pretty 
country-women.  Ovid,  in  his  Art  of  Love,  has  given  some 
precepts  as  to  this  particular,  though  I  find  they  are  differ- 
ent from  tlioae  which  prevail  among  the  modems.  He  re- 
commends a  red  striped  silk  to  the  pale  complesion,  white 
to  the  brown,  and  i^rk  to  the  fair.  On  the  contrary,  my 
friend  Will.,  who  pretends  to  be  a  greater  master  in  tins  art 
than  Ovid,  tells  me,  that  the  palest  features  look  the  most 
agreeable  in  white  sarcenet,  that  a  face  which  is  over-flushed 
appears  to  advanta^  in  the  deepest  scarlet,  and  that  the 
dAckest  complexion  is  not  a  little  alleviated  by  a  black  liood. 
In  short,  he  is  for  losing  the  colour  of  the  face  in  that  nf  tho 

hood,  as  a  fire  burns  diialy,  and  a  candle  goes  hnlf  out,  iitl 
the  light  of  tlie  sun.     This,  says  he,  your  Ovid  himBell'  haw  1 
hinted,  where  he  treats  of  these  matters,  when  he  tella  ua 
that  the  Blue  Water-Dympha  are  drosaed  in  slcy-colnured 
garments ;  and  that  Aurora,  who  always  appears  in  the  light 
of  the  rising  bud,  is  robed  in  saffron. 

Whether  these  hia  observations  are  justly  grounded  I 
cannot  tell ;  but  I  have  often  known  him,  as  wo  have  atood 
together  behind  the  ladies,  praise  or  dispraise  the  complesion 
of  a  face  which  he  never  saw,  from  observing  the  colour  of 
her  hood,  and  has  been  very  seldom  out  in  these  bis  guesses. 

As  I  have  nothing  more  at  heart  than  the  honour  and  im- 
provement of  the  fair  sex,  I  cannot  conclude  this  paper  with- 
out an  exhortation  to  the  British  ladies,  that  they  'would 
eieel  the  women  of  all  other  nations  as  much  in  virtue  andJ 
good  sense,  as  they  do  in  beauty ;  which  they  may  eertainlyj 
do,  if  they  will  bo  as  industrious  to  cultivate  their  minoBjJ 
as  they  are  to  adorn  their  bodies :  in  the  mean  while  I  shal 
recommend  to  their  most  serious  consideration  the  saying  ofi] 
an  old  Greek  poet, 

No.  267.     SATintDAY,  JAWTTAET  5. 

Cedite  RDmam  sciiplorca,  ccditc  Graii.     Phofeb 

Them  '  is  nothing  in  nature  more  irksome  than  general  j 
diacouraes,  especially  when  they  turn  chiefly  upon  words/^ 
For  this  reason  I  shall  waive  the  discussion  of  that  point    \ 
which  was  started  some  years  since,  Wbether  Milton's  Para- 
Ase  Lost  may  be  called  au  heroic  poem  ?  Those  who  will  not 
V  give  it  that  title,  may  call  it  (if  they  please)  a  divine  poem. 
It  will  be  sufficient  to  its  perfection,  if  it  has  in  it  all  the 
beauties  of  the  highest  kind  of  poetry ;  and  as  for  those  who 
aUege  it  is  not  an  heroic  poem,  they  advance  no  more  to 
the  diminution  of  it,  than  if  they  should  say  Adam  is  not 
jEneas,  nor  Eve,  Helen. 

'  Tbese  papeis  □□  Millon,  being  dictated  by  taste,  and  miltec  with 
elegance,  were  extremely  well  received  by  the  public.  It  woa  taken  fol 
granted  that  these  DL'ceGBary  qualitiee  fere,  of  themselreB,  Buflicient  ts 
farm  a  great  crilic 

iO.  HT. 



I  Bball  therefore  examine  it  by  the  rules  of  Bpic  poetry, 
id  see  whether  it  falls  short  of  the  Iliad  or  jEneid,  in  the 
beauties  which  are  easential  to  tLat  kind  of  writing.  The  cf- 
firat  thing  to  be  considered  in  an  epic  poem  is  the  fable, 
■which  is  perfect  or  imperfect,  according  as  the  action  whicii 
it  relates  ia  more  or  less  so.  This  action  should  have  three 
qualifications  in  it.  First,  it  should  be  but  one  action. 
Secondly,  it  should  he  an  entire  action.  And  thirdly,  it 
nhould  he  a  great  action.  To  consider  the  action  of  tho 
Iliad,  jEneid.  and  Paradise  Lost,  in  these  three  several  lights. 
Homer,  to  preserve  the  unity  of  his  action,  hastens  into  the 
midst  of  things,  as  Horace  has  observed:  had  he  gone  up 
to  Leda's  egg,  or  begun  much  later,  even  at  the  rape  of 
Helen,  or  the  investing  of  Troy,  it  ia  manifest  that  the  atory 
of  the  poem  would  have  been  a  series  of  several  actions.  He 
therefore  opens  .his  poem  with  the  discord  of  his  princes,  and 
artfully  interweavea,  in  the  aeveral  succeeding  parts  of  it,  an 
account  of  everything  material  which  relates  to  them,  and 
had  passed  before  this  fatal  dissension.  After  the  same 
manner  iEneas  makes  his  firaf  appearance  in  the  Tyrrhene 
Beaa,  and  within  sight  of  Italy,  because  the  action  proposed 
to  be  celebrated  was  that  of  his  settling  himself  in  Latiura. 
But  because  it  was  necessary  for  the  reader  to  know  what 
had  happened  to  him  in  the  taiing  of  Troy,  and  in  the  pre- 
ceding parts  of  his  voyage,  Virgil  makes  his  hero  relate  it  by 
way  of  episode  in  the  second  and  third  books  of  the  ^aeia. 
The  contents  of  both  which  books  come  before  those  of  the 
first  book  in  the  thread  of  the  story,  though,  for  preserving 
of  this  unity  of  action,  they  follow  it  in  the  disposition  <tf 
the  poem.  Milton,  in  imitation  of  these  two  great  poets, 
opena  his  Paradise  Lost  with  an  infernal  council  plotting  the 
&11  of  man,  which  is  the  action  he  proposed  to  celebrate ; 
and  as  for  those  great  actions,  the  battle  of  the  angels,  and 
creation  of  the  world,  (which  preceded  in  point  of  time, 
■and  which,  in  my  opinion,  would  have  entirely  destroyed 
the  unity  of  his  principal  action,  had  he  related  them  in  the 
Bame  order  that  they  happened,)  he  cast  them  into  the  fifth, 
aisth,  and  seventh  books,  by  way  of  episode  to  this  noble 

Aristotle  himself  allows,, that  Homer  has  nothing  to  boast 
of  as  to  the  unity  of  his  fable,  though  at  the  same  time,  that 

178  Jlddisoh's  wobkb. 

great  critic  and  philoBopher  endearoura  to  palliate  thia  inwa 
perfectioD  in  tho  Greek  poet,  by  imputing  it  in  aome  Trie»» 
sure  to  the  very  nature  ot  an  epic  poem.  Somti  have  beea 
of  opinion,  that  the  jEneid  also  lahourB  in  this  particular, 
and  nas  episodeB  which  may  be  looked  upon  aa  excreaceucea 
rather  than  aa  parts  of  the  action.  On  the  contrary,  the 
poem  which  we  have  now  under  our  conai deration,  hath  uo 
other  epiaodes  than  auch  as  naturally  ariae  from  the  subject, 
and  yet  is  filled  with  auch  a  multitude  of  aatonishing  inci- 
dents, that  it  gives  ua  at  the  same  time  a  pleasure  of  the 
ereatcBt  variety,  and  of  the  greateat  simplicity  ;  uniform  in 
ita  nature,  though  diversified  iu  the  esecution. 

I  must  ohaerve,  also,  that  aa  Virgil,  in  the  poem  which 
was  designed  to  celebrate  the  origini  of  the  Roman  empire, 
haa  described  the  birth  of  its  great  rival,  the  Carthaginian 
commonwealth ;  Milton,  with  the  like  art,  in  his  poem  on 
the  Fall  of  Man,  haa  related  the  fall  of  those  angels  who  are 
Ilia  professed  enemies.  Beside  the  many  other  heautiea  in 
Huen  an  epiaode,  ita  running  parallel  with  the  great  action  of 
the  poem  hinders  it  from  brSiking  the  unity  so  much  aa  an- 
other episode  would  have  done,  that  had  not  bo  great  aa  af- 
finity with  the  principal  subject.  In  abort,  thia  ia  the  same 
kind  of  beauty  which  the  critics  admire  ^  in  the  Spanish  Friar, 
or  the  Double  Discovery,  where  the  two  different  plots  look 
like  counterparts  and  copies  of  one  another. 

The  second  qualification  required  in  the  action  of  an  epic 
h/poem  is,  that  it  should  be  an  entire  action :  an  action  is  en- 
tire when  it  is  complete  in  all  its  parts ;  or,  aa  Aristotle  d&- 
FCribes  it,  when  it  consists  of  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an 
end,  Nothing  should  go  before  it,  be  intcrmiied  with  it,  or 
follow  after  it,  that  is  not  related  to  it ;  aa,  on  the  contrary, 
no  single  step  should  be  omitted  in  that  just  and  regular 
process  which  it  must  be  supposed  to  take  from  its  original 
to  ita  conaummation.  Thua  we  see  the  anger  of  Achillea  in 
its  birth,  its  continuance,  and  effects ;  and  .^neas's  settlement 
iu  Italy,  carried  on  tliro^h  all  the  oppoaitiona  in  his  way  to 
it  both  by  aea  and  land.  The  action  in  Milton  excela  (I  thmk) 
V     both  the  former  in  this  particular ;  we  see  it  contrived  in 

'  Tha  lame  kind  of  beauii/  tchich  tie  crilici  admire.']  This  Kianei*  of 
two  plols  could  never  have  been  thouglit  a  icaKti/,  if  to  have  two  diSeri 
out  plola,  of  ai}y  kind,  in  the  liBme  drama,  had  not  been  a/outt. 

No  SBT. 


hell,  eiecutfld  upon  earth,  and  punished  hy  heaven.     The      ' 
parts  of  it  are  told  in  the  most  distinct  maimer,  and  grow  /' 
Out  of  one  another  in  the  moat  natural  order.  / 

**>,     The  third  quajification  of  an  epic  poem  is  jta^gxeatness. 
y"  The  anger  of  Achilles  was  of  suca  consequence,  that  it  em- 
broiled the  kJugH  of  Greece,  destroyed  the  heroes  of  Asia, 
and  engaged  all  the  gods  in  factions.     The  settlement  of 
jEneas  in  Italy  produced  the  Csaara,  and  gave  hirth  to  the 
Eoman   empire.     Milton's   subject  was  still  greater  than 
1  either  of  the  former ;  it  does  not  determine  the  fate  of  single 
*  persons  or  nations,  but  of  a  whole  species.     The  imited 
powers  of  bell  are,  joined  together  for  the  destruction  of 
mankind,  which  they  effected  in  part,  and  would  have  com- 
pleted, bad  not  Omnipotence  itaefi'  interposed.     The  princi- 
S  actors  are,  man  in  tis  greatest  perfection,  and  woman  iu 
■  highest  beauty.     Their  enemies  are  the  faUen  angels : 
the  Messiah  their  friend,  and  the  Almighty  their  protector. 
In  short,  everything  that  is  great  in  the  whole  circle  of  being, 
whether  withm  the  verge  of  nature  or  oat  of  it,  has  a  pro- 
per part  assigned  it  in  this  admirable  poem. 

In  poetry,  as  in  architecture,  not  only  the  whole,  but  the      [ 

Principal  members,  and  every  part  of  them,  should  be  great, 
will  Dot  presume  to  say,  that  the  book  of  Games*  in  the 
.^kieid,  or  that  in  the  Iliad,  are  not  of  this  nature  ;  nor  to 
reprehend  Virgil's  simile  of  a  top,  and  many  other  of  the 
same  kind  in  flie  Iliad,  as  liable  to  any  censure  in  this  par- 
ticular ;  but  I  think  we  may  say,  without  derogating  from 
those  wonderM  performances,  that  there  is  an  indisputahle 
and  unquestioned  magnificence  in  every  part  of  Paradise 
Lost,  and,  indeed,  a  much  greater  than  could  have  been 
formed  upon  any  Pagan  system. 

But  Aristotle,  hy  the  greatness  of  the  action,  does  not 
only  mean  that  it  should  he  great  in  its  nature,  hut  also  iu 
its  duration ;  or,  in  other  words,  that  it  should  have  a  due 
length  in  it,  oa  well  as  what  we  properly  caD  greatness. 
The  just  measure  of  this  kind  of  magnitude,  he  explains 
by  the  following  similitude.  An  animal,  no  bigger  than  a 
mite,  cannot  appear  perfect  to  the  eye,  because  the  sight 
takes  it  in  at  once,  and  has  only  a  conuised  idea  of  the  whole, 

■   Tie  book  of  Gama.]     A  mere  prejudice.     The  critic  forgeta  tlmt  tbe 
Oamtt  veie  ennobled,  in  the  ideas  of  Pagammn,  by  being  made  a  < 
the  public  leligioa. 


ADDiaoir'a  iroRKS. 

and  not  a  distinct  idea  of  aU  its  parts  ;  if,  on  tlie  contranjl 
you  should  suppose  an  animal  of  ten  thousand  furlongs  in 
length,  the  eye  would  he  so  filled  with  a,  aingla  part  of  it, 
that  it  could  not  give  the  mind  an  idea  of  the  whole.  What 
these  animals  are  to  the  eye,  a  very  short  or  a  very  long  ao 
tion  would  be  to  the  memory.  The  first  would  he,  as  it  were, 
lost  and  swallowed  up  by  it,  and  the  other  difficult  to  he  con- 
tained in  it.  Homer  aaid  Virgil  have  shown  their  principal 
art  in  this  particular;  the  action  of  the  Iliad,  and  that  of 
the  jEneid,  were  in  themselves  esceeding  short ;  hut  are  so 
beautifolly  extended  and  diversified  by  the  invention  of 
episodes,  and  the  machinery  of  gods,  with  the  like  poetical 
ornaments,  that  they  make  up  an  agreeable  story  sufficient 
to  employ  the  memory  without  overcharging  it.  MDton's 
action  is  enriched  mth  such  variety  of  circumstances,  that  I 
have  taken  as  much  pleasure  in  reading  the  contents  of  hia 
books,  aa  in  the  best  invented  story  I  ever  met  with.  It  is 
possible,  that  the  traditions  on  which  the  Iliad  and  -Mneid 
were  biult,  had  more  circumstances  in  them  thMi  the  history 
of  the  Fall  of  Man,  aa  it  ia  related  in  Scripture.  Besides,  it 
was  easier  for  Homer  and  Virgil  to  dash  the  truth  with  fic- 
tion, as  they  were  in  no  danger  of  offending  the  religion  of 
their  country  by  it.  But  as  for  Milton,  he  had  not  only  a 
very  few  circumstances  upon  which  to  raise  his  poem,  hut 
wasalaoohligedtoproceea  with  the  greatest  caution  in  every- 
thing that  he  added  out  of  his  own  invention.  And,  indeed, 
notvrithstanding  all  the  restraints  he  was  under,  he  has  filled 
hia  story  with  so  many  surpriBtng  incidents,  which  bear  so 
close  an  analogy  with  what  is  delivered  in  holy  writ,  that  it 
is  capable  of  pleasing  the  most  delicate  reader,  without  giving 
offence  to  the  most  scrupulous. 

The  modem  critics  have  coUected,  from  several  hints  in 
the  Hiad  and  jEneid,  the  space  of  time  which  is  taken  up  by 
the  action  of  each  of  those  poems ;  but  aa  a  great  part  of 
Milton's  story  was  transacted  in  regions  that  lie  out  of  the 
reach  of  the  sun  and  the  sphere  of  day,  it  is  impossible  to 
gratiiy  the  reader  wth  such  a  calculation,  which,  indeed, 
would  be  more  curious  than  instructive ;  none  of  the  critics, 
either  ancient  or  modem,  having  laid  down  rules  to  circum- 
scribe the  action  of  an  epic  poem  with  any  determined  num' 
ber  of  years,  days,  or  hours. 

But  of  this  more  particularly  hereafter.' 
'  Vide  Spit.  308. 

No.  278.    SATTTHDAT,  JANUABT  12. 

■ — Notandi  sunt  tibi  Mores.      Hoh. 

HivnfO  examined  the  action  of  Paradise  Lost,  let  na  in 
the  nest  place  consider  the  actora.  This  ia  Ariatotle's  me- 
thod of  considering,  first  the  fable,  and  secondly  the  num- 
nera ;  or,  as  we  generally  call  thetn  in  English,  the  feble  and 
the  characters. 

Homer  has  excelled  all  the  heroic  poeta  that  ever  wrot«, 
in  the  multitude  and  variety  of  hia  characters.  Every  god 
that  is  admitted  into  his  poem,  acts  a  part  which  would  have 
been  suitable  to  no  other  deity.  Hia  princes  are  as  much 
distinguiahed  by  their  manners  as  by  tUeir  dominions ;  and 
even  those  among  them,  whose  characters  seem  wholly  made 
up  of  courage,  differ  from  one  another  as  to  the  particular 
fanda  of  courage  in  which  they  excel.  In  short,  there  is 
Bcarce  a  speech  or  action  in  the  Iliad,  which  the  reader  may 
not  ascribe  to  the  person  that  speaks  or  acts,  without  seeing 
Ms  name  at  the  head  of  it. 

Homer  does  not  only  outshine  all  other  poets  in  the  variety, 
bvtt  also  in  t551lov^tyof  his  characters.  He  hath  introduced 
among  hia  Grecian  prmccs  a  person  who  had  lived  thrice  the 
age  of  man,  and  conversed  with  Theseus,  Hercules,  Poly- 
pheiaus,  and  the  first  rac*  of  heroes.  Hia  principal  actor  is 
the  son  of  a  goddess,  not  to  mention  the  offspring  of  other 
deities,  who  have  hkewise  a  place  in  his  poem,  and  the  vener- 
able Trojan  prince,  who  was  the  father  of  so  many  kings  and 
heroes.  There  ia  in  these  several  characters  of  Homer,  a 
certain  dignity  as  well  as  novelty,  which  adapts  ihem  in  a 
more  peculiar  manner  to  the  nature  of  an  neroic  poem. 
Though  at  the  same  time,  to  give  them  the  greater  variety, 
he  has  described  a  Vulcan,  that  is,  a  buffoon  among  his  goifo, 
and  a  Tfaersitea  among  his  mortals, 

Virgil  faUs  infinitely  short  of  Homer  in  the  characters  of 
his  poem,  both  as  to  their  variety  and  novelty,  ^neas  is, 
indeed,  a  perfect  character;  but  as  for  Achates,  though  he 
is  styled  the  hero's  friend,  he  does  nothing  in  the  whole 
poem  which  may  deserve  that  title.  Gyas,  Mnestheus,  Ser- 
gestuB,  and  Cloaathus,  are  all  of  them  men  of  the  same  stamp 
and  character. 

— fortemqua  Gjan,  fortemque  Cloanlbum        Vihg. 

There  are,  indeed,  seyeral  natural  incidentB  in  the  part  of 
AacaniuB ;  as  that  of  Dido  cannot  be  sufficiently  admired.  I 
do  not  see  anything  new  or  particular  in  Tumus.  Pallas  and 
Evander  are  remote  copies  of  Hector  and  Priam,  as  Lauaua 
and  Me^enti  ua  are  almost  parallelB  to  Pallas  and  Evander.  The 
characterB  of  Nisus  and  Euryalus  are  beautiful,  but  common. 
We  roust  not  forget  the  parts  of  Sinon,  Camilla,  and  aomo 
few  others,  which  are  fine  improvements  on  the  Greek  poet. 
In  short,  there  is  neither  that  variety  nor  noyelty  in  the  per- 
sons of  the  jEneid,  which  we  meet  with  in  those  of  the  Iliad. 

If  we  look  into  the  characters  of  Milton,  we  shaD  find  that 
he  has  introduced  all  the  variety  his  fable  was  capable  of  re- 
ceiving. The  whole  species  of  mankind  waa  in  two  persona 
at  the  time  to  which  the  subject  of  his  poem  is  confined. 
We  have,  however,  four  distinct  characters  in  these  two  per- 
sons. We  Bee  man  and  woman  in  the  highest  innocence  and 
perfection,  and  in  the  most  abject  state  of  guilt  and  infirmity. 
The  two  last  characters  are,  indeed,  very  common  and  obvious ; 
but  thetwofirat  are  not  only  more  magnificent,  but  more  new, 
than  any  characters  either  in  Tirgil  or  Homer,  or  indeed  in 
the  whole  circle  of  nature. 

Milton  waa  so  sensible  of  this  defect  in  the  subject  of  his 
poem,  and  of  the  few  characters  it  would  afford  him,  that  he 
lias  brought  into  it  two  actors  of  a  shadowy  fictitious  nature, 
in  the  persona  of  Sin  and  Death,  by  which  meana  be  has 
wrought  into  the  body  of  his  fable  a  very  beautiful  and  well- 
invented  allegory.'  But,  Tiotwithatanding  the  fineness  of  this 
allegory  may  atone  for  it  in  some  measure,  I  cannot  think 
that  persons  of  such  a  chimerical  existence  are  proper  actors 
in  an  epic  poem  ;  becauae  there  is  not  that  measure  of  pro- 
bability anneied  to  them,  which  ia  requisite  in  writings  of 
this  kind,  na  I  shall  show  more  at  large  hereafter, 

Virgil  has,  indeed,  admitted  Fame  aa  an  actress  in  the 
Mneia,  but  the  part  she  acts  is  very  short,  and  none  of  the 
most  admired  circumstances  in  that  divine  work.  We  find 
in  mock-heroic  poems,  particularly  in  the  Dispensary  and 
the  Lutrin,  several  allegorical  persons  of  this  nature,  whicK 
are  very  beautiful  in  those  compositions,  and  may,  perhapi, 
be  used  as  an  argument,'  that  the  authors  of  them  were  of 

'  Vide  Spect.  279. 

'  Andnuii/,perliaps,beiae'!  asati  argurnejil.']  IKAnf  may  be  iiisd 


opinion,  such  charactera  might  have  &  place  in  an  epic  work, 
icir  my  own  part,  I  should  be  glad  the  reader  woiild  think 
BQ,  for  the  sake  of  the  poem  I  am  now  examining;  and  must 
further  add,  that  if  Bueli  empty,  uneubatantial  beings  may  be 
ever  made  use  of  on  this  occasion,  never  were  any  more  nicely 
imagined,  and  employed  in  more  proper  actions,  than  thoBO 
of  which  I  am  now  speaking. 

^...^"Anotber  principal  actor  in  this  poem  is  the  great  enemy 
of  mankind.     The  part  of  Ulysses  in  Homer'a  Odyssey  is 

'  very  much  admired  by  Aristotle,  aa  perplexing  that  fable 
witn  very  agreeable  plots  and  intricaeies,  not  only  b^  the 
many  adventures  in  his  voyage,  and  the  subtilty  of  his  be- 
haviour, but  by  the  various  concealments  and  mscoveries  of 
his  person  in  several  parts  of  that  poem.  But  the  crafty 
being  I  have  now  mentioned  makes  a  much  longer  voyage 
than  Ulysses,  puts  in  practice  many  more  wiles  and  Btratft- 
gema,  and  hidep  himself  under  a  greater  variety  of  shapes  and 
appearances,  all  of  which  are  severally  detected,  to  the  great 
deDght  and  surprise  of  the  reader. 

We  may  likewise  observe  with  how  much  art  the  poet  has 
varied  several  characters  of  the  persona  tliat  speak'  in  his 
infernal  assembly.  Qn  the  contrary,  how  has  he  represented 
the  whole  Godhead  exerting  itself  towards  man  in  its  full 
benevolence,  under  the  three-fold  distiuction  of  a  Creator,  a 
Bedeemer,  and  a  Comforter! 

!Nor  must  we  omit  the  person  of  Eaphael,  who,  amidst  his 
tenderness  and  friendship  for  man,  shows  such  a  dignity  and 
condescension  in  all  his  speech  and  behaviour,  as  are  suitable    ■ 
to  a  superior  nature.     The   angels  are,   indeed,  as   much 
diversified  iu  Milton,  and  distinguished  by  their  proper  parts, 
as  the  gods  are  in  Homer  or  Virgil,     'the  reauer  will  find 
nothing  ascribed  to   Uriel,  Gabriel,  Michael,  or  Bjiphael, 
BTgunient  ?  Why,  eitboc  the  alltgorieal  pmoni,  or  (tie  baatily  they  hove 
■uch  cam  posil  ions.    Very  inaccurately  expressed,  take  it  which  v&y  you 
will.    The  whole  had  been  better  in  Bdmc  such  fomi  aa  this :  "  We  liiid 
in  mock-heroic  poema,  particularly  in  the  DUpeniary  &nd  the  Lutrin, 
several  allegoricnl  persons  of  this  nature ;  and  the  beauty  they  are  Been 
to  have  in  those  compositions,  niay  induce  some  to  believe  thai  the  suthors    ' 
of  them  might  think  such  chantcters  fit  to  be  employed  io  the 

'   Rat  varied  mtend  eharai:leri  of  the  prriona  thai  tpfai.l  Hem 
•nppoae,  aud  ahculd  therefore  have  said — "  Htu  varied  tht  tharattan  ^  I 
a*  isv^vl persons  that  speak,"  &e.  

which  ia  not  in  a  particular  manner  suitable  to  their  respeeUj 
ive  cbaractera. 

There  ia  another  circumstance  in  the  principal  actors  of 
the  Iliad  and  -Jlneid,  which  givea  a  peculiar  beauty  to  those 
two    poema,  and  was  therefore  contrived  with  veiy   great 

1'udgment.  I  mean  the  authors  having  chosen  for  their 
leroes,  peraons  who  were  eo  nearly  related  to  the  people  for 
whom  they  wrote.  Achilles  was  a  Greek,  and  ^neas  tha 
remote  founder  of  Homo.  By  this  means  their  countrymen 
(whom  they  principally  proposed  to  themselves  for  their 
readers)  were  particularly  attentive  to  all  the  parts  of  their 
at-ory,  and  sympathized  with  their  heroea  in  aU  their  adven- 
tures. A  Koman  could  not  but  rejoice  in  the  escapes,  auo- 
ceasea,  and  victories  of  jEneaa,  and  be  grieved  at  any  defeats, 
misfortnnea,  or  diaappointments  that  befell  him  ;  as  a  Greek 
must  have  had  the  aame  regard  for  Achiiles.  And  it  ia  plain, 
that  each  of  those  poems  have  lost '  this  great  advantage, 
among  those  readers  to  whom  their  heroea  are  as  atrangera, 
or  inmfFereut  persons. 

Milton's  poero  ia  admirable  in  thia  respect,  since 
possible  for  any  of  its  readers,  whatever  nation,  country,  of 
people  he  may  belong  to,  not  to  be  related  to  the  peraonB 
who  are  the  principal  actors  in  it ;  but  what  ia  still  infinitely 
more  to  its  advantage,  the  principal  actors  in  this  poem  are 
not  only  our  progenitors,  but  our  representatives.    We  have 
an  actual  interest  in  everything  they  do,  and  no  leas  than  ■ 
our  utmost  happiness  is  concerned  and  lies  at  stake  in  theiiW 
behaviour.  'fl 

I  shall  subjoin,  as  a  corollary  to  the  foregoing  remark,  oil  f 
admirable  observation  out  of  Aristotle,  which  hath  been  very 
much  miarepreaeut^d  in  the  quotationa  of  some  modern 
critics.     "  II'  a  man  of  perfect  and  consummate  virtue  fella 
into  a  misfortune,  it  raises  our  pity,  but  not  our  terror,  be- 
cause we  do  not  fear  that  it  may  be  our  own  case,  who  do 
not  resemble  the  suffering  person.    But  (as  that  great  philo- 
sopher adds)  if  we  aee  a  man  of  virtue,  mist  with  infirmitiea, 
fill  into  any  misfortune,  it  does  not  only  raiaa  our  pity,  but   , 
our  terror;  becauao  we  are  a&aid  that  the  like  miafortunsJ 
may  happen  to  ouraelvea,  who  rea^mble  the  character  of  thsl 
suffering  person."  ' 

'  Each  of  tkoH  pottat  Adeb  loll,]  Tn  make  the  grammFir  exact,  it 
■hould  have  Baid — "  TAmtpoej/u  Avne,  lac/i  ofikem,  loit  IhU,"  Ac 



I  shall  on]y  remark  in  this  place,  that  the  foregoing  ol> 
■ervation  of  Aristotle,  though  it  may  be  true  in  other  occa- 
Bions,  does  not  hold  in  tliis ;  because  ia  the  present  case, 
though  the  pereous  who  fall  into  misfortune  are  of  the  most 
perfect  and  consummate  virtue,  it  is  not  to  he  considered  u 
what  may  poasibly  be,  but  what  actually  is  our  own  case ; 
are  emharked  with  them  oa  the  same  bottom,  and 
jnust  be  partakers  of  their  happiness  or  misery. 

In  this,  and  some  other  very  few  instances,  Aristotle's 
rules  for  epic  poetry  (which  he  had  drami  from  his  reflections 
upon  Homer)  cannot  be  supposed  to  squiire  exactly  with 
the  heroic  poems  which  have  been  made  since  his  time ;  since 
it  ia  erideat  to  every  impartial  judge,  his  rules  would  still 
have  been  more  perfect,  could  he  have  perused  the  .^Ihieid, 
which  was  made  some  hundred  years  after  his  death. 

In  my  next  I  shall  go  through  other  parts  of  Milton's 
poem;  and  hope  that  what  I  shall  there  advance,  as  well  as 
what  I  have  aJready  written,  will  not  only  serve  as  a  com- 
ifnent  upon  Milton,  but  upon  Aristotle. 

No.  279.    SATTJEDAT,  JANUAET  19. 

Reddete  peiaonte  si 

"Wh  have  already  taken  a  general  survey  of  the  fable  and 
characters  in  Milton's  Paradise  Lost :  the  parts  which  re- 
main to  be  considered,  according  to  Aristotle's  method,  are 
^he  Bentiments  and  the  language.  Before  I  enter  upon  the 
TirHL  -of  thyrie,  I  mustTillVHPtwe-my  reader,  that  it  ia  my 
design,  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  my  general  reflections  on 
these  four  several  heads,  to  give  particular  instances  out  of 
the  poem  now  before  us,  of  beauties  and  imperfections  which 
may  be  observed  under  each  of  them,  as  also  of  such  other 
particulars  as  may  not  properly  iaU  under  any  of  them. 
This  I  thought  flt  to  premise,  that  the  reader  may  not  judge 
too  hastily  of  this  piece  of  criticism,  or  look  upon  it  as  im- 
perfect, before  he  has  seen  the  whole  extent  of  it. 

The  sentiments  in  an  epic  poem  are  the  thoughts  and  be- 
havjgu];j^hich  the  author  asoribes  to  the  persons  whom  he 
Tn^duees,  and  are  just  when  they  are  conformable  to  the 
ebnracters  of  the  several  persons.    The  sentiments  have  '" 

Addison's  wo  km. 

wiae  a  relation  to  things  aa  well  as  persons,  and  are  tben^. 

Jertect  when  they  are  such  aa  are  adapted  to  the  auhject.-, 
f  in  either  of  these  cases  the  poet  endeavoura  to  sigue  oil' 
explain,  magnify  or  diminish,  to  raise  love  or  hatred,  pity  car] 
terror,  or  any  other  passion,  ■we  ought  to  consider  wnether'' 
the  sentiments  he  makes  use  of  are  proper  for  those  ends. 
Homer  is  censured  by  the  critics  for  his  defect  as  to  this 
particular  in  several  parta  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey;  though  at 
the  same  time,  those  who  have  treated  this  great  poet  with 
candour,  have  attributed  thia  defect  to  the  times  in  which  he 
lived.  It  was  the  fault  of  the  age,  and  iiot  of  Homer,  if 
there  wants  that  delicacy  in  some  of  hia  sentimeuta,  which 
now  appears  in  the  works  of  men  of  a  much  inferior  genius. 
Besides,  if  there  are  blemishes  in  any  particular  thoughts, 
there  ia  an  infinite  beauty  in  the  greatest  part  of  them.  In 
abort,  if  there  are  many  poets  who  would  not  have  fallen  into 
the  meanneaa  of  some  of  hia  sentiments,  there  are  none  who 
could  have  risen  up  to  the  greatness  of  others.  Virgil  hafl' 
excelled  all  others  m  the  propriety  of  hia  sentiments.  Miltoii' 
shines  likewise  very  much  in  this  particular :  nor  must 
omit  one  consideration  which  adds  to  hia  honour  and  reputa- 
tion. Homer  and  Virgil  introduced  persona  whose  charac- 
ters are  commonly  known  among  men,  and  such  as  are  to  be 
met  with  either  in  history,  or  in  ordinary  conversation. 
IMilton'a  characters,  most  of  them,  lie  out  of  nature,  and  were 
to  be  formed  purely  by  hia  own  invention.  It  shows  a  greater 
genius  in  Shakspeare  to  have  drawn  hia  Caliban,  than  his 
Hotspur  or  Julius  Cieaar ;  the  one  waa  to  be  aupplied  out  of' 
his  own  imagination,  whereas  the  other  might  have  been 
formed  upon  tradition,  history,  and  observation.  It  was 
much  easier,  therefore,  for  Homer  to  find  proper  sentiment* 
for  aa  aasembly  of  Grecian  generals,  than  for  Milton  to  d> 
veraify  his  infernal  council  with  proper  characters,  and  in* 
spire  them  with  a  variety  of  sentimenta.  The  loves  of  Didd 
and  ^neaa  are  only  copies  of  what  has  passed  between  othei' 
persons.  Adam  and  Eve,  before  the  fall,  are  a  different 
apeciea  from  thar  of  mankind  who  are  descended  from  them ; 
and  none  but  a  poet  of  the  moat  unbounded  invention, 
and  the  most  exquisite  judgment,  could  have  filled  their 
conversation  and  behaviour  with  so  many  cireumstaneeti 
during  their  state  of  innocence. 

Nor  is  it  sufficient  for  an  epic  poem  to  be  filled  with  siich 



louglitR  as  are  natural,  unless  it  abound  also  with  euch  as 

sublime.     Virgil  in  tbis  particular  falla  short  of  Homer. 

Las  not,  indeed,  so  many  thoughts  that  are  low  and  vul- 

;  but  at  the  same  time  has  not  so  man;  thoughts  that  are 

.blime  and  noble.     Ihe  trutii  of  it  is,  Virgil  seldom  risea 

_.ito  very  astonishing  sentiments,  where  he  is  not  fired  by 

iiie  Iliad.     He  everywhere  charms  and  pleases  us  by  the 

fbrce  of  his  own  geoiua ;  but  seldom  elevatea  and  traiaporta 

UB  where  he  does  not  fetch  his  hints  from  Homer. 

Milton's  chief  talent,  and,  indeed,  his  distinguishing  ei- 
cellence,  liea  in  the  sublimity  of  his  thoughts.     There  are 
others  of  the  modems  who  rival  him  in  every  other  part  of 
poetry ;  but  ia  the  greatiieas  of  hia  sentiments  he  triumphs 
T  all  the  poets  both  modem  and  ancient.  Homer  only  ex- 
ited.^    It  IS  impossible  for  the  imagination  of  man  to  dis- 
id  itself  with  greater  ideas,  than  those  which  he  has  laid 
jether  in  his  first,  second,  and  sixth  books.     The  seventh, 
rhich  deaeribes  the  creation  of  the  world,  ia  likewiae  wonder- 
ly  sublime,  though  not  ao  apt  to  stir  up  emotion  in  the 
lind  of  the  reader,  nor  consequently  so  perfect  in  the  epic 
ray  of  writing,  because  it  is  filled  with  leas  action.     Let  the 
licioua  reader  compare  what  Longinus  has  observed  on 
ireral  passages  in  Homer,  and  he  will  find  parallels  for  most 
'them  m  the  Paradise  Loat. 

From  what  has  been  said  we  may  infer,  that  as  there  are 
two  kinds  of  sentiments,  the  natural  and  the  aublime,  which 
always  to  be  pursued  in  an  heroic  poem,  there  are  also 
I  kinds  of  thoughta  which  are  carefiilly  to  be  avoided. 
OThe  first  are  such  as  are  affected  and  unnatiu^ ;  the  second, 
■uch  as  are  mean  and  vulgar.     As  for  the  first   kind  of 
thoughts,  we  meet  with  little  or  nothing  that  is  like  them  in 
Tirgil;  he  has  none  of  those  trifling  points  and  puerilities 
that  ore  so  often  to  be  met  with  in  Ovid,  none  of  the  epi- 
grammatic turns  of  Lucan,  none  of  those  swelling  sentiments 
which  are  ao  frequently  in  Statius  and  Olandian,  none  of 
thoae  mixed  embellishments  of  Taaso.     Everything  is  just 
natural.     His  sentiments  show  that  he  had  a  perfect  in- 
light  into  human  nature,  and  that  he  knew  everything  which 
IS  the  most  proper  to  afiect  it. 

Mr.  Dryden  has  in  some  places,  which  I  may  hereafter 
'  Somar  only  exuepltd,]  He  miglit  have  uid  with  irutli,  '  Homer 
If  Met  excepted." 

talte  notice  of.  misrepresented  Virgil's  way  of  thinkmg  as  to 
tlii§  particular,  in  tiie  translation  he  haa  given  iiH  of  the 
.^eid.  I  do  not  remember  that  Homer  anywhere  falla  into 
the  faults  above-mentioned,  which  were,  indeed,  the  fake  re- 
finementa  of  later  ages.  Milton,  it  must  be  confeat,  haa 
sometimes  erred  in  this  respect,  as  I  shall  show  more  at  large 
in  another  paper;  though,  considering  all  the  poeta  of  the 
age  in  which  ne  writ  were  infected  with  this  wrong  way  of 
thinking,  he  is  rather  to  be  admired  that  he  did  not  give 
more  into  it,  than  that  he  did  sometimea  comply  with  the 
vicious  taste  which  still  prevails  so  much  among  modem 

and  grovelling,  an  epic  poet  should  not  only  avoid  such  ai 

But  since  several  thoughts  may  be  natural  which  are  low 

''  "'  '  '    'louldnc _,  _,. 

I,  but  also  sue!)  e 
mean  and  vulgar.  Homer  has  opened  a  great  field  of  raillery 
to  men  of  more  delicacy  than  greatness  of  genius,  by  the 
homelinesa  of  some  of  his  sentiments.  But,  as  I  have  before 
said,  these  are  rather  to  be  imputed  to  the  simplicity  of  the 
age  in  which  he  lived,  to  which  I  may  also  add,  of  that  which 
he  described,  than  to  any  imperfection  in  that  divine  poet. 
Zoilus  among  the  ancients,  and  Monsieur  Perrault  among 
the  modems,  pushed  their  ridicule  very  far  upon  him,  on 
account  of  some  such  sentiments.  There  is  no  blemish  to 
be  observed  in  Virgil  under  this  head,  and  but  a  very  few  in 

I  shall  give  but  one  instance  of  this  impropriety  of  thought 
in  Homer,  and  at  the  same  time  compare  it  with  an  instance 
of  the  same  nature,  both  in  Virgil  and  Milton.  Sentiments 
which  raise  laughter  can  very  seldom  be  admitted  with  any 
decency  into  an  heroic  poem,  whose  business  is  to  eicite 
passions  of  a  much  nobler  nature.  Homer,  however,  in  his 
characters  of  Vidcan  and  Theraites,  in  his  story  of  Mars  and 
;  Venus,  in  his  behaviour  of  Irus,  and  in  other  passages,  haa 
J  been  observed  to  have  lapsed  into  the  burlesque  character, 
,  and  to  have  departed  from  that  serious  air  which  seems  essen- 
tial to  the  magnificence  of  an  epic  poem.  I  remember  but 
one  langh  in  the  whole  jEneid,  which  rises  m  the  fifth  book, 
upon  Moncetes,  where  he  is  represented  as  thrown  overboai'd, 
and  diring  himself  upon  a  roclt.  But  this  piece  of  miriih  ia 
BO  well  timed,  that  the  severest  critic  can  nave  nothing  to 
Bay  against  it,  for  it  is  in  the  book  of  games  and  diversions, 


vhere  the  reader's  mind  inay  be  supposed  to  be  Bufficiently 
nlaxed  for  euch  an  entertainment.     The  only  piece  of  plea- 
itr;'  in  Paradise  Lost,  is  where  the  evil  apirits  are  described 
rallying  the  angels  upon  the  snccesH  of  their  newly  in- 
dented artiHerr.     Thia  passage  I  look  upon  to  be  the  mort 
exceptionable  m  the  whole  poem,  aa  being  nothing  else  bat 
~  etnng  of  puna,  and  those  too  very  indifferent. 
^Salim  beheld  their  plight, 
Aad  to  hi»  mntea  thus  in  deiiiion  called. 

0  liiends,  wh;  come  not  on  these  victors  proud  I 
Ere  while  Ihey  fierce  were  coming,  and  when  we, 
To  entertain  Ihem  fair  wilh  open  front 
And  breasi,  (what  could  we  more  ?)  propounded  lernu 
Of  eompoaitiou,  straight  tiey  changed  thoir  minds. 
Flew  off,  Bad  into  strange  Tagaiies  fell, 
As  they  Mould  dance ;  yet  for  a  dance  they  seemed 
Somewhat  eitratagaiit  and  wild,  poihaps 
For  joy  of  ofiered  peace;  butlsuppose 
If  cue  proposals  once  again  were  heard, 
We  should  compel  them  to  a  quick  result. 

To  whom  thus  Belial,  in  like  gamesome  mood. 
Leader,  Uie  terms  we  sent  were  terms  of  weight. 
Of  hard  contents,  and  full  of  force  urged  home. 
Such  as  we  might  perceire  amused  tbem  all, 
And  stumbled  many ;  who  receives  them  rigjlt 
Had  need,  from  head  IQ  foot,  well  understand ; 
Mot  understood,  thia  gift  they  have  besides. 
They  show  us  when  our  foes  walk  not  upright. 
Thus  they  among  themselves  in  pleasant  vein 
Stood  scoffing— 

No.  285.    SATTTKDAT,  JANUAET  28. 

Ne  quimmquo  Deus,  quicimque  adhibebitoi  heroi, 

Regali  conspectus  in  auro  nuper  et  ostro, 

Migret  in  obacuras  humili  sermone  tabemas : 

Aut  dum  vital  humum,  nubes  et  inaaia  captet.     Hob. 

HAVrao  already  treated  of  the  fable,  the  characters,  and 
ntiments  in  the  Paradise  Lost,  we  arc  in  the  last  place  to 
i^usider  the  language ;  and  as  the  learned  world  is  veir 
anucfa  divided  upon  Milton  as  to  thia  point,  I  hope  they  will 
jBscuse  me  if  I  appear  particular  in  any  of  my  opinions,  and 
jndine  to  those  who  judge  the  most  advantageoualy  of  the 

j  It  is  requieite  tTiat  the  knfiuBge  of  an  heroic  poeni  ehouUt] 
Jbe  both  perspicuous  and  auhltme.  In  proportion  as  eitbee 
of  these  two  qualitieB  are  wnntina;,'  the  language  is  imper- 
fect. Perepicuity  is  the  first  and  most  neccsaary  qualiiicar 
tion ;  ijiaomuch,  that  a  good-natured  reader  sometimeB  over- 
looks a  little  slip  even  in  the  grammar  or  ayntas,  where  it  ia 
imposBible  for  dim  to  mistake  the  poet's  sense.  Of  this  k'  *" 
ia  that  passage  in  Milton,  wherein  he  speaks  of  Satan  j 

—God  and  his  Son  eicept. 
Created  Ihing  nought  valued  he  nor  Bhuim'd. 

And  that  in  which  he  describes  Adam  and  Eve: 

It  is  plain,  that  in  the  former  of  these  passages,  according  ■ 
to  the  natural  ayntas,  the  divine  persons  mentioned  in  tha  J 
first  line  are  represented  as  created  beings ;  and  that  in  the 
other,  Adam  and  Eve  are  confounded  with  their  sons  and 
daughters.    Such  little  bleuushes  as  these,  when  the  thought 
is  great  and  natural,  we  should,  with  Horace,  impute  to  a 
pardonable  inadvertency,  or  to  the  weakness  of  human  na- 
ture, which  cannot  attend  to  each  minute  particular,  and  give 
the  last  finishing  to  every  circumstance  in  so  long  a  work.  The  J 
ancient  critics,  therefore,  who  were  acted  by  a  spirit  of  can-  | 
dour,  rather  than  that  of  cavilling,  invented  certain  figures 
of  speech,  on  purpose  to  palliate  little  errora  of  this  nalnire 
in  the  writinga  of  those  authors  who  bad  so  many  greater 
beauties  to  atone  for  them. 

If  clearness  and  perspicuity  were^  only  to  be  consulted, 
the  poet  would  have  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  clothe  his  y 
thoughts  in  the  most  plain  and  natural  expressions.     But  1 
since  it  often  happens,  that  the  most  obvious  phrases,  and  I 
those  which  are  used  in  ordinary  conversation,  become  too    I 
familiar  to  the  ear,  and  contract  a  kind  of  meanness  by  pass- 
ing through  the  mouths  of  the  vulgar,  a  poet  should  take 
p^icular  care  to  guard  himself  against  idiomatic  ways  of 
speaking.    Ovid  and  Lucan  have  many  poornesses  of  expres- 
sion upon  this  account,  as  taking  up  with  the  first  phrasecii  i 

'  Are  aanting.']     It  sliould  h«  u  wanting. 

'  ff  elearatti  and  peripicuiiy  were,  ^e.]  Here  are  two  lubat 
deed,  bu[  one  Ihin^  only  ia  expre^ed.  He  should  have  said- 
Bets  or  perspicuity  leat  only." 

E   BPXCTA.TOB.  191 

[hat  offered,  without  putting  themBelrea  to  the  trouhle  of 
ooking  after  such  aa  would  not  only  be  nutural,  but  also 
(levated  and  sublime.  Miltou  has  but  a  few  feUinga  in  this 
tSnd,  'ff  which,  however,  you  may  meet  with  some  instances, 
IS  in  the  following  passages. 

Embryos  and  Idiots,  Eremites  und  Friare, 
White,  black,  HDd  e^ey,  with  all  their  tcunipery, 
Here  pilgrima  taiun — 

— Awhile  discourae  <bey  hold, 
No  fear  leat  dinner  coal ;  when  thus  began 
Our  author — 

Who  of  all  ages  to  succeed,  but  feeling 
The  evil  on  him  brought  bj  me,  will  curse 
My  head,  ill  fare  our  ancestor  impure. 
For  this  we  may  Ibonk  Adam— 
The  great  masters  in  compoBition  know  very  well  that 
an  elegant  phrase  becomes  improper  for  a  poet  or  an 
7,  when  it  has  been  debased  by  common  use.     For  this 
J  the  works  of  ancient  authors,  which  are  written  in 
sad  languages,  have  a  great  advantage  over  those  which  are 
written  la  languagea  that  are  now  spoken.    Were  there  any 
an  phrases  or  idioms  in  Virgil  and  Homer,  they  would 
;  shock  the  ear  of  the  most  delicate  modern  reader  so 
auch  as  they  wotild  have  done  that  of  an  old  Greek  or  Eo- 
1,  because  we  never  hear  them  pronounced  in  our  street^ 
w  in  ordinary  conversation. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  sufficient,  that  the  language  of  an  epic 
ooem  be  perspicuous,  unless  it  be  ^so  sublime.  To  this  end 
t  ought  to  deviate  from  the  common  lorma'and  ordinary 
pbraaes  of  speech.  The  judgment  of  a  poet  very  much  dis- 
sovera  itself  in  shunning  the  common  roads  of  espreasion, 
irithout  falling  into  such  ways  of  speech  as  may  seem  stiff 
pud  unnatural ;  he  must  not  swell  mto  a  false  sublime,  by 
mdeavoiiring  to  avoid  the  other  extreme.  Among  the  Greeks, 
Eschylua,  and  sometimes  Sophocles,  were  guilty  of  this  fault ; 
iBuong  the  Latins,  Claudian  and  Statius ;  and  among  our 
awn  coutitrymen,  Shakspeare  and  Lee.  In  these  authors 
^"■e  affectation  of  greatness  often  hurts  the  perspicuity  of 
e  st^le,  as  in  many  others  the  endeavour  after  perspicuity 

istotle  baa  observed,  that  the  idiomatic  style  may  !» 
roided,  and  the  mihli'mg  frirmpd,  by  the  following  methoda. 
'irst,  by  the  use  of  metaphors :  such  are  those  in  Milton. 

ADDIBOir'a  irOBKS. 

'■  ImparaduiRii  in  fine  iii|jiH^y.r'H  ar 

— —  -^  And '  In  ii  IS  banT  a  tt 

Stood  waving,  tipt  with  fire. — 

The  graasy  cloda  now  caWed. — 

Spangled  wilh  eyes— 


metaphors  ^ 

la  these,  and  innumerable  other  instances,  the  mel 
are  very  bold,  but  just ;  I  muat,  however,  observe,  that  the 
metaphors  are  not  thick-sowo  in  Milton,  which  always  sa- 
vours too  much  of  wit ;  that  they  never  clash  with  one  an- 
other, which,  aa  Aristotle  observeB,  turns  a  sentence  into  a 
kind  of  an  enigma  or  riddle ;  and  that  he  seldom  has  re- 
course  to  them  where  the  proper  and  natural  words  will  do 
as  well. 

Another  way  of  raising  thgjMiguBfie,  and  giving  it  a  poet- 
ieal  turn,  is  tpymaae.  ijse  of  the  idioms  of  other  tonnes. 
Virgii  IS  full  of  the  Greek  forms  of  speech,  which  the  critics 
call  Hellenisms,  as  Horace  in  his  Odes'  abounds  with  them, 
much  more  than  Virgil.  I  need  not  mention  the  several 
dialects  which  Homer  has  made  use  of  for  this  end,  MOton, 
in  conformity  with  the  practice  of  the  ancient  poetf 
with  Aristotle's  rule,  has  infused  a  great  many  Latinisms, 
as  well  as  Grtecisms,  and  sometimes  Hebraisms,  into  the  lan- 
guage of  his  poem ;  as  towards  the  beginning  of  it, 

Nor  did  Ihey  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 

In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  paios  not  feel. 

Yet  to  their  general'a  voice  thej  aoon  obeyed. 

— Who  stall  tempt  with  wandering  feet 
The  dark,  unboftoraed.  infinite  abyaa, 
And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  airy  flight, 
Uphome  with  indefatigable  wings 
Over  the  vast  abrupt ! 

—So  both  ascend 
In  the  visions  of  God —  B.  ii 

"Under  this  head  may  be  reckoned  the  placing  the  adjective 
alter  the  substantive,  the  transposition  of  words,  the  turning 
the  adjective  into  a  substantive,  with  several  other  foreign 
modes  of  speech,  which  this  poet  has  naturaliaed  to  give  his 
verse  the  great-er  sound,  and  throw  it  out  of  prose.  . 

The  third  method  mentioned  by  Aristotle,  is  what  agrees  1 
with  the  genius  of  the  Greek  language  more  than  with  that  1 

'  EoToee  in  Au  Orfes.]    He  aays,  in  hU  Odei,  to  show  that  Horace  used  ] 
Ihese  Hellenisms  properlj. 




of  any  other  toiigue,  and  is  therefore  more  uaed  by  Homer 
than  bylany  other  poet.  I  mean  the  lengthening  of  a  phraaa 
by  the  addition  of  words,  which  "may  either  be  inserted  oh 
pinitted,  as  also  by  the  extending  or  contracting  of  particulaf 
krords  by  the  insertion  or  oniisHion  of  certain  eyllahlea. 
Hilton  has  put  in  practice  this  method  of  raising  his  lan- 
guage, aa  far  as  the  nature  of  our  tongue  will  permit,  as  in 
the  passage  above-mentioned,  eremite  for  what  is  hermite  ia 
common  oiscoiirse.  If  you  observe  the  measure  of  hia  verae, 
he  baa  with  great  judgment  suppressed  a  syllable  in  sever^ 
words,  and  shortened  those  of  two  syllables  into  one,  by 
which  method,  besides  the  above-mentioned  advantage,  he 
bas  given  a  greater  variety  to  his  numbers.  But  this  prac- 
tice IS  more  particularly  remarkable  in  the  names  of  persons 
and  of  countries,  as  Beekebub,  Heasebon,  and  in  many  other 
particulars,  wherein  he  has  either  changed  the  name,  or  made 
Hae  of  that  which  is  not  the  most  coramotdy  known,  that  he 
ndgtit  the  better  depart  from  the  language  of  the  vulgar. 

The  same  reason  recommended  to  him  several  old  words, 
trbich  also  makes '  his  poem  appear  the  more  venerable,  and 
ffcvea  it  a  greater  air  of  antiquity, 
■  I  must  likewise  take  notice,  that  there  are  in  Milton 
■everal  words  of  his  own  coining,  as  Cerberean,  miscreated, 
iell-doom'd,  embryon  atoms,  and  many  others.  If  the  reader 
is  offended  at  this  liberty  in  our  English  poet,  I  would  re- 
commend him  to  a  discourse  in  Plutarch,  which  shows  us 
how  frequently  Homer  has  made  use  of  the  same  Hberty. 

Milton,  by  the  above-mentioned  helps,  and  by  the  choice  . 
of  the  noblest  words  and  phrases  which  our  tongue  would  I 
•fiord  him,  has  carried  our  language  to  a  greater  height  than  I 
•ay  of  the  English  poets  have  ever  done  before  or  after  I 
ifcim,"  and  made  the  sublimity  of  hia  style  equal  to  that  of  | 
;liJB  Bentiments. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  these  observations  on 
Milton's  style,  because  it  is  tliat  part  of  him  in  which  he  ap- 

*  ^¥hick  alia  maia.'}    In  this  conslruclion.  &e  aaieceieal  to  lehich  is 

uon.  Better  refer  ivhich  to  tuordi,  and  rfad — make — and  give. 
__  *  £eJon  or  after  him.']  Better  expunge  these  words,  and  then  the 
timQ  will  be  left  indoflnite,  as  it  should  be  j  for  the  (irelar-perfect  teum 
■' iace"  cannot  lie  applied  to  befute  and  after.  Or  else,  point  thus — 
Aaw  eccr  dune,  beforB  or  nfUr  Aim — and  then  the  expressiou  will  be  ligtlX,  j 
ieeauBB  elliptical,  and  aa  if  he  hud  said^"  IV/ieiher  tlity  lived  be/on  9f 
itfter  him.'- 

IDDisoir  a  TTOBEa. 

pears  tbe  moat  aingiilar.  The  remarks  I  have  here  madtf  I 
upon  the  practice  of  other  poeta,  with  my  observatiooa  out 
ot  AriBtotle,  will  perhaps  alleviate  the  prejudice  which  some 
have  taken,  to  his  poem  upon  this  account ;  though,  after  all, 
I  must  confess,  tliat  I  think  his  style,  though  admirable  in 
general,  is  in  some  places  too  much  stiffened  and  obscured 
by  the  fi'equent  use  of  those  methods,  which  Aristotle  haa 
prescribed  for  the  raising  of  it. 

This  redundancy  of  those  several  ways  of  speech  which 
Aristotle  calls  foreign  language.  Mid  with  whicb  Milton  has 
ao  very  much  enriched,  and  in  some  places  darkened,  the  lan- 
guage of  his  poem,  was  the  more  proper  for  his  use,  because 
his  poem  is  written  in  blank  verse.  Khyme,  without  any 
other  aaaistance,  throws  the  language  off  from  prose,  and 
very  often  makes  an  indifferent  phrase  pass  unregarded ;  but 
where  the  verse  is  not  built  upon  rhymoB,  there  pomp  of 
sound,  and  energy  of  espreaaion,  are  indiapenaftbly  necessary 
to  support  the  style,  anH  keep  it  from  fiuling  into  the  flat- 
ness of  prose. 

Those  who  have  not  a  taste  for  this  elevation  of  style,  and 
are  apt  to  ridicule  a  poet  wheu  he  goes  out  of  the  common 
forms  of  expression,  would  do  well  to  see  how  Aristotle  has 
treated  an  ancient  author,  called  Euclid,  for  his  insipid  mirth 
upon  this  occasion.  Mr.  Dryden  used  to  call  this  sort  of 
men  his  prose-critics. 

I  Bhould,  under  this  head  of  the  language,  consider  Mil- 
ton's numbers,  in  which  he  has  made  use  of  several  elisions,' 
that  are  not  customary  among  other  English  poets,  as  may 
be  particularly  observed  in  his  cutting  off  tlie  letter  Y,  when 
it  precedes  a  vowel.  This,  and  some  other  innovations  in  the 
measure  of  his  verse,  has  varied  bis  numbers,  in  such  a  man- 
ner, as  makes  them  incapable  of  satiating  the  ear  and  cloying 
the  reader,  which  the  same  uniform  measure  would  certainly 
have  done,  and  which  the  perpetual  returns  of  rhyme  never 
iail  to  do  in  long  narrative  poems.  I  shall  close  these  re- 
flections upon  the  language  of  Paradise  Lost,  with  observing 
that  Milton  hap  copied  after  Homeric  rather  than  Tirgil,  in 
Ihe  length  of  his  periods,  ihe  c^piouaneaa  of  his  phrases,  and 
the  running  of  hia  verses  into  one  another. 

'  BJiitonj.]    He  leained  tl 

:t  iiom  the  ItiUim  poet*. 


No.  291.    SATTJBDAY,  FEBETJAEY  2. 

— Ubi  plnra  nilent  in  carmine,  non  ego  pauci« 
Offendar  maculis,  quas  aut  incuria  iiidit, 
Aut  humana  porum  uivit  Italura. —  HOK. 

I  HATE  now  considered  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  under  those 
four  great  heads  of  the  fable,  the  charactera,  the  eentiments, 
and  the. language  ;  and  have  shown  that  he  excels,  in  genera!, 
under  each  of  these  heads.  I  Lope  that  I  have  made  several 
diacoveries  wliich  may  appear  new,  even  to  those  who  are 
Teraed  in  critical  learning.  Were  I  indeed  to  choose  my 
readers,  by  whose  judgment  I  would  stand  or  fall,  they  should 
not  be  such  as  are  acquainted  only  with  the  French  and 
Italian  critics,  hut  also  with  the  ancient  and  moderu  who 
have  written  in  either  of  the  learned  languages.  Above  all, 
I  would  have  them  well  versed  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets, 
without  which  a  man  very  often  fancies  that  he  underatanda 
&  critic,'  when  in  reality  he  does  not  comprehend  his 

It  is  ui  criticism,  as  in  all  other  sciences  and  speculaiaoUiS  -, 
one  who  brings  with  him  any  implicit  uotiona  and  observ- 
ations which  he  baa  made  in  his  reading  of  the  poets,  will 
find  his  own  reflections  metbodiEcd  and  esplaiucd,  and  per- 
haps several  little  hints  that  had  passed  in  hia  mind  perfected 
and  improved  in  the  works  of  a  good  critic ;  whereas  one  who 
has  not  these  previous  lights,  is  very  often  an  utter  stranger 
to  what  he  reads,  and  apt  to  put  a  wrong  interpretation 
upon  it. 

Nor  ia  it  aufficient,  that  a  man  who  sets  up  for  a  judge  in 
criticism,  should  have  perused  the  authors  above-mentioned, 
unless  he  baa  also  a  clear  and  logical  head.  Without  this 
talent,  he  is  perpetually  puzzled  and  perplexed  amidst  his 
own  blunders,  mistakes  the  sense  of  those  he  would  confute, 
or  if  he  chaneea  to  think  right,  does  not  know  bow  to  convey 
his  thoughts  to  another  with  clearness  and  perspicuity. 
Aristotle,  who  was  the  beat  critic,  was  also  one  of  the  best 
logicians  that  ever  appeared  in  the  world. 

'   Uruleralatuii  a  critic,  Ac]    To  imdentand  a  critic,  and  to  eempnkf^ 
Afi  m*aning.  In  the  sonie  thing.    What  lie  meant  to  aay,  was — *'  &i>f 
that  he  cuiifuiea  k  ctiliCi  when  in  lealit]'  he  does  not  compiel 



Mr.  LocUe'a  Esaav  on  Human  TJoderatanding  would  I 
thought  a  very  odd  \)ook  for  a,  man  to  make  himself  maor  i 
ter  of,  who  would  get  a  reputation  by  critical  writings; 
though  at  the  same  time  it  ia  levy  certain,  that  an  author 
who  has  not  learned  the  art  of  diatin(;uiBhing  between  words 
and  things,  and  of  ranging  his  thoughta,  ana  setting  them  in 
proper  lights,  whatever  notions  he  may  have,  will  lose  him- 
self in  confusion  and  obscurity,  I  might  further  observe, 
that  there  ia  not  a  Greek  or  Latin  critic  who  has  not  shown, 
even  in  the  style  of  his  criticisms,  that  he  was  a  master  of  oU 
the  elegance  and  delicacy  of  his  native  tongue. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  there  is  nothing  more  absurd  than  for. 
man  to  set  up  for  a  critic,  without  a  good  insight  into  all  tb 
parts  of  learning;  whereas  many  of  those  who  have  endeavour- 
ed to  signalize  themselves  by  works  of  this  nature  among  ouE 
English  writers,  are  not  only  defective  in  the  above-mentioned 
particulars,  but  plainly  discover  by  the  phrases  they  make 
use  of,  and  by  their  confused  way  of  thinking,  that  they  are 
not  acquainted  with  the  most  common  and  ordinary  systems 
of  arts  and  sciences.  A  few  general  rules  estracted  out  of 
tlie  French  authors,  with  a  certain  cant  of  words,  has  som^ 
times  set  up  an  illiterate,  heavy  writer  for  a  most  judicious 
and  formidable  critic. 

One  great  mark,  by  which  you  may  discover  a  critic  who 
baa  neither  taste  nor  learning,  is  this,  that  he  seldom  ven- 
tures to  praise  any  passage  in  an  author  which  has  not  been 
before  received  and  applauded  by  the  public,  and  that  hia 
criticism  turns  wholly  upon  little  faults  and  errors.  This 
part  of  a  critic  ia  ao  very  easy  to  aueceed  in,  that  we  find 
every  ordinary  reader,  upon  the  puhliahing  of  a  new  poem, 
has  wit  and  ill-nature  enough  to  turn  several  passages  of  it 
into  ridicule,  and  very  often  in  tho  right  place,  Thia  Mr. 
Drydea  has  very  agreeably  remarked  in  those  two  celebrated- 

Errors,  like  BtrawB,  upon  the  autfacB  flow ; 
Hh  who  would  search  tar  pearls,  rauat  dive  below. 
M    A  true  critic'  ought  to  dwell  rather  upon  escellencies  than' 

'  A  true  critLc  dwells,  wilh  more  pleasurf,  upon  ihe  pxeellenciea  of  tie 
ftuthor  ha  oritidsca,  Uian  upon  liis  imperftflionB  ;  but  his  duly  is,  to  point 
out  cillior  u  occasion  serves.  As  lo  what  is  said  of  djacharging  tliia 
oHlcu,  in  tho  way  of  ridicule,  and  not  of  serious  observation,  that  is  an- 
other klFaii.     One  would  reaaon  with  a  good  writer,  and  laugh  at  a  bad 


led  beauties  of  a  writer, 
1^8  ^are  worth  their_ 

_^  exijuwite  worHsand"  finest  strokes 

autLor  are  thoae  wluch.  very  often  appear  the  most 
doubtful  and  esceptionable,  to  a  man  who  wants  a  relish  for 
polite  learning ;  and  they  are  these,  which  a  sour,  undiatin- 
guishing  critic  geueraUy  attacks  with  the  greatest  violence. 
Tally  observes,  that  it  is  very  easy  to  brand  or  fix  a  mark 
upon  what  he  calla  verbum  ardetts,  or,  as  it  may  be  rendered 
into  English, "  a  glowing,  hold  expression,"  and  to  turn  it  into 
ridicule  by  a  cold,  ill-natured  criticiara.  A  little  wit  is 
equally  capable  of  eipoeing  a  beauty,  and  of  aggravating  a 
&ult ;  and  though  such  a  treatment  of  an  author  naturaUy 
produces  indigniition  in  the  mind  of  an  understanding  reader, 
it  has  however  its  effect  among  the  generality  of  those  whose 
bauds  it  falls  into ;  the  rabble  of  mankind  being  very  apt  to 
think  that  evervthing  which  is  laughed  at  with  any  mixture 
of  wit,  is  ridiculous  in  itself. 

Such  a  mirth  as  this  is  always  unseasonable  in  a  critic,  as 
it  rather  prejudices  the  reader  than  convinwa  him,  and  is 
citable  ot  making  a  beauty,  as  well  as  a  blemish,  the  subject 
of  derision.  A  man  who  cannot  write  with  wit  on  a  proper 
subject,  is  dull  and  stupid,  but  one  who  shows  it  in  an  im- 
proper place,  is  as  impertinent  and  absurd.  Besides,  a  man 
who  has  the  gift  of  ridicule,  is  apt  to  find  fault  with  anything 
that  gives  him  on  opportunity  of  exerting  his  beloved  talent, 
and  very  often  censurea  a  passage,  not  because  there  is  any 
fault  in  it,  but  because  he  can  be  merry  upon  it.  Such 
kinds  of  pleasantry  are  very  unfair,  and  disingenuous,  in 
works  of  criticism,  in  which  the  greatest  masters,  both  an- 
cient and  modem,  have  always  appeared  with  a  serious  and 
instructive  air 

As  I  intend  in  my  next  paper  to  show  the  defects  in  Mil- 
ton's Paradise  Lost,  I  thought  fit  to  premise  these  few  par- 
ticulars, to  the  end  that  the  reader  may  know  I  enter  upon 
it,  as  on  a  very  ungrateful  work,  and  that  I  shall  just  point 
at  the  imperfections,  without  endeavouring  to  inflame  them 
with  ridicule.  I  must  also  obaen-e  with  Longinus,  that  the 
productions  of  a  great  genius,  with  many  lapses  and  inad- 

000.  Yet  tlia  rule  is  ziot  without  eiceptiona ;  Ihe  riditule  on  Dryden,  i 
■lie  Reheaitial,  wasjuat  us  well  placed,  as  tbc  sciiuui  criticiain  of  our  w 
Quit  aa  HilLoa,  in  hk  next  papei. 


ADDISON'a   WOtt». 

vertenciea,  are  infinitely  preferable  to  the  works  of  a 

rior  kind  of  author,  which  are  scmpnlonsly  exact  and  c 
formable  to  all  the  rules  of  correct  writing. 

I  shall  conclude  my  paper  with  a  atory  out  { 
which  sufficiently  showB  us  the  opinion  that  judici' 
thor  entertained  of  the  sort  of  critics  I  have  been  here  i  .^ 
tioning.  A  famous  critic,  says  he,  having  gathered  together 
all  the  faults  of  an  eminent  poet,  made  a  present  of  them  to 
Apollo,  who  received  them  very  graciously,  and  reaolved  to 
make  the  author  a  suitable  return  for  the  trouble  he  had 
beeji  at  in  collecting  them.  In  order  to  this,  he  set  before 
him  a  sack  of  wheat,  as  it  had  been  just  threshed  out  of  the 
sheaf.'  He  then  hid  him  pick  out  the  chaff  from  among  the 
com,  and  lay  it  aside  by  itself  The  critic  applied  hirose'" 
to  the  task  with  great  industry  and  pleasure,  and  af 
having  made  the  due  separation,  was  presented  by  Ap< 
with  the  chaff  for  his  paina. 

No.  297.     SATUKDAT,  FEBEUABT  9. 

Egregio  inspersQS  leprendas  corpore  nicvoB.  Hon 
Apcek  what  I  have  said  in  my  last  Saturday's  paper,^ 
shall  enter  on  the  Bubject  of  this  without  further  preface,  am 
remark  the  several  defects  which  appear  in  the  fable,  the 
characters,  the  sentiments,  and  the  language  of  Milton'a 
Paradise  Lost ;  not  doubting  but  the  reader  will  pardon 
me,  if  I  alle^  at  the  same  time,  whatever  may  be  said  for 
the  estenufttioa  of  such  defects.  The  first  imperfection  which 
I  shall  observe  in  the  feble  is,  that  the  event  of  it  is  un- 

^  Thfi-fabla  of.  every  poem  is,  according  to  Aristotle's  divi- 

f\  ■  _Bii:m,  either  Simple  or  Implex.    It  is  called  simple  when  there 

la"  no  change  of  fortune  in  it ;  i  m[jtec,3ltetfTtt6'f6rtune  of  the 

".'     chief  actor  changes  from  bad  to  good,  or  from  good  to  bad. 

■  At  il  had  been  thmhed  out  of  the  iheaf.']  The  wny  of  ridicule,  as  Mr. 
Addison  olncrved,  is  easily  abused.  To  make  this  lively  etory  apply  to 
the  Eritic,  Apollo  should  have  set  before  tim  a  sack  of  wheat  as  it  was 
brought  to  market :  but  lien  the  joke  had  been  lost  i  for  one  Beea,  in  that 
case,  how  the  separation  of  the  chaff  from  the  corn  might  ans 

SiO.  »T.                                THE   SFECTATOB.                                       199  I 

K  .  The  implci  fable  is  thouph^  tliP  mnah  ppi-fi-pf  ■  I  suppose,  I 

•'    becauae  it  is  more  proper  to  stir  up  the  passions  of  the  I 

reader,  and  to  surpriBe  hiin  with  a  greater  yariety  of  ac-  1 

eidentB.  jM 

The  implex  fable  ia  therefore  of  two  kinds  :  in  the  first  t.  ^^ 

the  chief  actor  imakea  his  way  through  a  long  seriea  of  dan-  I 

gera  and  difSculties,  till  he  nmTea  at  honour  and  prosperity,  J 

aa  we  see  in  the  story  of  TJlyaaes.     In  the  second,  the  chief  j3  ] 

actor  in  the  poem  falls  fixim  some  eminent  pitch  of  honour  \  .  ^ 

and  prosperity,  into  misery  and  diagrace.  Thus  we  see  Adam  J 

and  Eve  sinking  jrom  a  atate  of  innocence  and  happineaa  M 

into  the  most  abject  condition  of  sin  and  sorrow.  I 

The  most  taking  tragedies  among  the  ancients  were  built  I 

on  thia  laat  sort  of  implex  fable,  particularly  the  traeedy  of  I 

CEdipuB,  which  proceeds  upon  a  story,  if  we  may  oeUeve  I 

Aristotle,  the  most  proper  for  tragedy  that  could  be  invented  I 

by  the  wit  of  man.     I  bare  taken  some  pains  in  a  former  I 

paper  to  show,  that  this  kind  of  implex  lable,  wherein  the  I 

event  ia  unhappy,  ia  more  apt  to  affect  an  audience  than  that  I 

of  the  first  kmd ;    notwithstanding  many  excellent  pieces  I 

among  the  ancients,  as  well  aa  most  of  those  which  have  I 

been  written  of  late  years  in  our  own  country,  are  raised  I 

upon  contrary  plans.     I  must,  however,  own,  that  I  think  I 

tnia  kind  of  fable,  which  ia  the  most  perfect  in  tragedy,  is  I 

jiot  so  proper  for  on  heroic  poem.  I 

Milton  seems  to  have  been  sensible  of  this  imperfection  in  I 

his  fable,  and  haa  therefore  endeavoured  to  cure  it  by  several  I 

expedients;^   particularly  by  the  mortification  which  the  I 

great  adversary  of  mankind  meets  with  upon  his  return  to  I 

the  assembly  of  infernal  spirits,  as  it  is  described  in  a  beau-  I 

"tifiil  passage  of  the  tenth  book  ;  and  likewise  by  the  vision,  I 

wherein  Adam  at  the  close  of  the  poem  sees  his  offspring  I 

triumphing  over  his  great  enemy,  and  himself  restored  to  a  I 

liappier  Paradise  than  that  from  which  he  fell.  I 

There  is  another  objection  against  Milton's  fable,  which  I 

is  indeed  almost  the  aame  with  the  former,  though  placed  in  M 

a  different  light,  namely,  That  the  hero  in  the  Paradise  Lost  JM 
IB  unBuccesstul,  and  by  no  meaua  a  match  for  his  enemies.  /^M 

This  gave  oecaaion  to  Mr.  Dryden'a  reflection,  that  the  devil  fl 

'  To  aire  |{  by  several  expcdienla,']      We  do  not  SM  lo  cure  wi  im"^  ^ 

locliMi,  but  a  dlsense.  For  oace,  o\a tmlhor' a  cnruiu»filici!y,  ia  thpch'  I 
•fiu*  tennSffursook  Mm;  the  propei  wurd  is,  wikwoI,  iic  camr. 


was  in  reality  IMilton'a  hero.  T  think  I  have  obviated  this 
objection  in  my  first  paper.  The  Paradise  Lost  is  an  epic, 
OP  a  narrative  poem,  and  be  that  looks  for  an  hero  in  it, 
searches  for  that  which  Milton  never  intended ;  but  if  he 
will  needs  fis  the  name  of  an  hero  upon  any  person  in  it,  it 
ia  certainly  the  Messiah  who  is  the  hero,  both  in  the  prin- 
cipal action,  and  in  the  chief  episodes.  Paganism  coula  not 
furnish  out  a  real  action  for  a  feble  greater  than  that  of  tlie 
Iliad  or  ^neid,  and  therefore  an  heathen  could  not  form  a 
higher  notion  of  a  poem  than  one  of  that  kind  which  they 
call  an  heroic.  Whether  Milton's  is  not  of  a  aublimer  na- 
ture I  will  not  presume  to  determine :  it  is  sufficient,  that  I 
show  there  ia  in  the  Paradise  Lost  all  the  greatness  of  plan, 
regularity  of  design,  and  masterly  beauties  which  we  dis- 
cover in  Homer  and  Virgil. 

I  must  in  the  nest  place  observe,  that  Milton  has  inter- 
woven in  the  texture  of  his  fable  some  particulars  ^hieh_do 
_npt  seem  to  have  probability  enougB  ior  an  epic  poem,  parti- 
cufiirly^1n~the  actions  "wHich  lie  ascribes  to  Sin  and  Death, 
and  the  picture  which  he  draws  of  the  Limbo  of  Vanity,  with 
other  passages  in  the  second  hook.  Such  allegories  rather 
eavour  of  the  spirit  of  Spenser  and  Ariosto,  than  of  Homer 
and  Virgil. 

In  the  structure  of  his  poem  he  has  likewise  admitted  of 
too  many  digressions^  It  ia  finely  observed  by  Aristotle, 
that  the  autbor  of  an  heroic  poem  should  seldom  speak  him- 
self, but  throw  as  much  of  his  work  as  he  can  into  the  moutha 
of  those  who  are  his  principal  actors.  Aristotle  has  given 
no  reason  for  this  precept ;  but  I  presume  it  is  because  the 
mind  of  the  reader  ia  more  awed  and  elevated  when  he  bears 
jEueaa  or  Achillea  apeak,  than  when  Virgil  or  Homer  talk 
in  tbeir  ovm  persons.  Besides  that  assuming  the  character 
of  an  eminent  man  is  apt  to  fire  the  imagination,  and  raise 
the  ideas  of  an  author.  Tully  tells  us,  mentioning  bis  di^ 
logue  of  old  age,  in  which  Cato  ia  the  chief  speaker,  that  upon 
a  review  of  it  he  was  agreeably  imposed  upon,  and  foncied 
that  it  was  Cato,  and  not  he  himself,  who  uttered  his  thoughts 
on  that  subject. 

If  the  reader  would  be  at  the  pains  to  see  how  the  story 
of  the  Iliad  and  ^neid  is  delivered  by  those  persons  who 
act  in  it,  he  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  little  in  either  of 
these  poems  proceeds  &om  the  authors.    Milton  baa,  in  the 

general  dispoBition  of  his  fable,  very  finely  observed  thia 
great  rule ;  iusoniucli,  that  there  is  Bcarca  a.  third  part  of  it 
■which  eoraes  from  the  poet ;  the  rest  is  spoken  either  by 
Adam  and  Eve,  or  by  some  good  or  evil  spirit  who  is  en- 

fid  either  in  their  destruction  or  defence, 
rom  what  has  been  here  obaerred,  it  appears  that  digres- 
Biona  are  by  no  means  to  be  allowed  of  in  an  epic  poem,  If 
the  poet,  even  in  the  ordinary  course  of  hia  narration,  should 
gpeak  as  little,  as  possible,  he  should  certainly  never  let  his 
narration  sleep  for  the  saie  of  any  reflections  of  his  own.  I 
^ve  often  observed,  with  a  secret  admiration,  that  the  Ion?- 

t  reflection  in  the  jEneid  is  in  that  passage  of  the  tenth 
book,  where  Tumua  is  represented  as  dressing  himself  in  the 
Bpoila  of  Pallas,  whom  he  had  slain.  Virgil  here  lets  hiii 
iable  stand  still  for  the  sake  of  the  following  remark.  "  How 
-is  the  mind  of  man  ignorant  of  futurity,  and  unable  to  bear 
pro^erous  fortune  with  moderation !  The  time  will  come 
when  Turnus  shall  wish  that  he  had  left  the  body  of  Pallaa 
untouched,  and  curse  the  day  on  which  he  dressed  hiniBelf  in 
these  spoUa."  As  the  great  event  of  the  ^neid,  and  the 
death  of  Tumus,  whom  .^neaa  slew  because  he  saw  hin] 
adorned  with  the  spoils  of  Pallas,  turns  upon  this  incident, 
Virgil  went  out  ot  his  way  to  make  thia  reflection  upon  it, 
'without  which  so  small  a  circumstance  might  possibly  have 
slipped  out  of  hia  reader's  memory.  Lucan,  who  was  an  in- 
judicious poet,  lets  drop  his  story  very  frequently  for  the  sake 
jOT  hia  unnecessary  digressions,  or  his  Diverticula,  aa  Scaliger 
colls  them.  If  he  gives  us  an  account  of  the  prodigies  which 
.preceded  the  civil  war,  he  declaims  upon  the  occasion,  and 
.  shows  how  much  happier  it  would  be  for  man,  if  he  did  not 
feel  hia  evil  fortune  before  it  comes  to  pass,  and  suifer  not 
<^y  by  ita  real  weight,  but  by  the  apprehension  of  it.  Mil- 
ten's  complaint  for  hia  blindness,  his  panegyric  on  marriage, 
luB  reflections  on  Adam  and  Eve's  going  ni^ed,  of  the  angds' 
eating,  and  several  other  passages  in  hia  poem,  arc  liable  to 
the  same  esception,  though  I  must  confess  there  ia  so  great 
A  beauty  in  these  very  digressions,  that  I  would  not  wish 
them  out  of  his  poem, 

I  have,  in  a  former  paper,  spoken  of  the  characters  of  Mil- 
ton's Paradise  Lost,  and  declared  my  opinion,  as  to  the  alle- 
gorical persons  who  are  introduced  in  it. 

"'  we  look  into  the  sentiments,  I  think  they  are  sometimes 

addisos'b  vStMt. 

j  defective  under  the  following  lieada ;   firet,  as  there  are 
^-iBeveral  ol  them  too  much  pointed,  aad  some  that  degenerate 
leven  into  puns.     Of  this  mt  kind,  I  am  afraid  ia  that  in 
first  book,  where  speaking  of  the  pigmiea,  he  calk  tbem- 

—The  amall  infantry 
Warr'd  on  by  cranes — 
Another  blpmiah  that  appears  in  some  of  his  thoughts,  it 
hja  frequent  allusion  to  heathen  fables,  which  are  not  certain- 
ly of  a  piece  with  the  divine  subject  of  which  he  treats.  I 
do  not  find  fault  with  these  alluHions,  where  the  poet  himself 
represents  them  as  fabulous,  as  he  does  in  some  places,  but 
where  he  mentions  them  as  truths  and  matters  of  fact.  The 
limits  of  my  paper  will  not  give  me  leave  to  be  particular  in 
instances  of  this  kind;  the  reader  will  easily  remark  them  in 
his  perusal  of  the  poem.  r 

A  third  fault  in  his  sentiments,  i^an  unnecessary  ostent- 
ation of  learning,  which  likewise  occurs  very  freijuently.  It 
ia  certain  that  both  Homer  and  Virgil  were  masters  of  all  the 
learning  of  their  times,  but  it  shows  itself  in  their  worka, 
after  an  indirect  and  concealed  manner.  Milton  seems  am- 
bitious of  letting  us  know,  by  his  escnrsions  on  free-will  and 
predestination,  and  his  many  glances  upon  history,  astronomy, 
geography,  and  the  like,  as  well  as  by  the  terms  and  phrases 
he  sometimes  makes  use  of,  that  be  was  acquainted  with  the 
whole  circle  of  arts  and  sciences. 

If,  in  the  last  place,  we  consider  the  language  of  this  great 
poet,  we  must  aUow  what  I  have  hinted  m  a  former  paper, 
that  it  is  oiten  too  much  laboured,  and  sometiniea  obscured 
by  old  words,  trangpositions,  and  foreign  idioms.  Seneca's 
objection"  to  the  style  of  a  great  fmiSSffHiffet  ejvs  oralio,  ni- 
hil in  ea  placidum,  nihil  lene,  is  what  many  critics  make  to 
Milton :  as  I  cannot  wholly  refute  it,  so  I  have  already  apo- 
logized for  it  in  another  paper  ;  to  which  I  may  further  add, 
that  Milton's  sentiments  and  ideas  were  so  wonderfully 
sublime,  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  have 
represented  them  in  their  full  strength  and  beauty,  without 
having  recourse  to  these  foreign  assistances.  Our  language 
sunk  under  him,  and  was  unequal  to  that  greatness  of  soul 
which  furnished  him  with  such  glorious  conceptions. 

A  second  fault  in  his  language  is,  that  be  often  affects  a 
kind  of  jingle  in  his  words,  as  in  the  following  passages,  and 
tnanr  otners : 


At  oae  siiglil  bound  high  over-leapt  all  bound. 

I  know  there  are  figures  for  thia  kind  of  speech,  that  Bome 
of  the  greatest  ancients  have  been  guilty  of  it,  and  that  Aiis- 
totle  himself  has  given  it  a  place  in  his  Ehetorie  among  the 
teauties  of  that  art.  But  as  it  is  in  itself  poor  and  trfiing, 
it  is  I  think  at  present  universally  esplodea  by  all-the  maa- 
'■"TB  of  polite  writing. 

The  last  fault  which  I  shall  take  notice  of  in  Milton's  style, 
iB  the  frequent  use  of  what  the  learned  call  technical  words, 
or  terms  of  art.  It  is  one  of  the  great  beauties  of  poetry,  to 
make  hard  things  intelligible,  and  to  deliver  what  is  abstruse 
of  itself  in  such  easy  Imiguage  as  may '  be  understood  by  or- 
dinary readers ;  besides,  that  the  knowledge  of  a  poet  should 
rather  seem  bom  with  him,  or  inspired,  than  drawn  from 
books  and  systems.  I  have  often  wondered,  how  Mr. 
Dryden  could  translate  a  passage  out  of  Tirgil,  after  the  fol- 
lowing manner. 

MQton  makes  use  of  larboard  in  the  same  manner.  "When 
he  is  upon  building,  he  mentions  Doric  Pillars,  Pilasters, 
'Cornice,  Freeze,  Ajchitrave.  When  he  talks  of  heavenly 
bodies,  you  meet  with  EcJiptic,  and  Eccentric,  the  Trepida^ 
tion.  Stars  dropping  from  the  Zenith,  Bays  cuhninating  from 
ibe  Equator.  To  which  might  be  added  many  instances  of 
the  bke  kind  in  several  other  arts  and  sciences. 

I  shall  in  my  next  papers  give  an  account  of  the  many 
jarticnlar  beauties  in  Milton,  which  would  have  been  too 
long  to  insert  \mder  those  general  heads  I  have  already 
'treated  of,  and  with  which  I  intend  to  conclude  this  piece  of 

'  SiaA  eaty  langaage,  as  maj/.']  Such  Is  regulaily  eiicceeded  by  ai,  jiist 
as  (rzfii  is  by  gualis,  in  Lalin,  But  when  lueh  is  jained  to  an  o4fM(iiw — 
tunh  emy— it  has  only  the  sense  and  force  of  "«o,"  the  correlalivB  of  which 
%"l/iat,"  He  might  have  said — tuck  language  at  may  ba  undettlood, — 
.Ot — mch  taay  language  that  it  may  bt  tmdtTtlaodi — but  cot, — tuck  mj) 
tanffHaffe  tu  may  bt  undtritood. 


No.  303.     SATUHDAT,  FEBEIJAET  IS. 


— Tolet  htKC  «ub  luee  videri 
Jndicis  argutum  qun  non  formidat  a 

I  HATB  seen  in  the  worka  of  a  modern  pLilosopher,  a  map 
of  the  BpotB  in  the  sun.  My  last  paper,  of  the  faults  ana 
hlemishep  in  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  may  he  considered  ob 
a  piece  of  the  same  nature.  To  pursue  the  allusion :  iia  it  is 
observed,  that  amoDg  the  bright  parts  of  the  luminous  body 
above-mentioned,  there  are  some  which  glow  more  intensely, 
and  dart  a  stronger  light  than  others  ;  so,  notwithstanding  I 
have  fliready  shown  Milton's  poem  to  be  very  beautiful  in 
genera],  1  shall  now  proceed  to  take  notice  of  such  beautiea 
as  appear  to  be  more  exquisite  than  the  rest.  Milton  haa 
d  the  subject  of  his  poem  in  the  following  verses, 
'a  first  disobedience,  and  the  fruit 


,  forbidi 


rouif  ht  death  into  0 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  erealer  Hun 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  biissful  aeitt, 
Sing,  heavenly  muse — 


These  lines  are  perhaps  as  plain,  simple,  and  unadorned, 
as  any  of  the  whole  poem,  in  which  particular  the  author  han 
conformed  himself  to  the  example  of  Homer  and  the  precept 
of  Horace.  i 

His  invocation  to  a  work  which  turna  in  a  great  measure  I 
■upon  the  creation  of  the  world,  is  very  properly  made  to  the 
muse  who  inspired  Mosea  in  those  books  from  whence  '  oui 
author  drew  his  subject,  and  to  the  holj^  spirit  who  is  there- 
in represented  aa  operating  after  a  particular  manner  in  the 
first  production  of  nature.  This  whole  exordium  rises  very 
happily  into  noble  language  and  sentiment,  as  I  think  the 
tnuiBition  to  the  fable  is  exquisitely  beautiful  and  natural. 

The  nine  days'  astonishment,  in  which  the  angela  lay  en- 

'  From  toAencs.]  From  ia  included  tii  aienee,  and  is,  therefore,  le- 
dundant;  but  ia  aometimee,  aa  here,  inserted  on  account  of  the  rhythm, 
t/ioie^booia, — leltsnce,  that  ia,  three  lon^  syllables  coming  together,  would 
have  dni(;gBd  heavily,  if  the  short  ayllahlB^m  had  not  intervened.  It 
may  seom  that  he  might,  in  this  place,  with  equal  convenience,  have  said, 
"fromahicAi"  but  he  had  just  before  said — loor*  loSirA — and  ihorefor* 
Mid,— ;/i-ODi  toAenca, — Lo  avoid  the  monotony. 


Ttmced  after  their  dreadful  overthrow.^  and  faJl  from  heaven, 
lefore  they  could  recover  either  the  use  of  thought  or  speech, 
i  a  noble  circumstance,  and  very  finely  imagined.  The 
liviaion  of  hell  into  aeaa  of  fire,  and  into  firm  ground  im« 
)regnated  with  the  same  furious  element,  with  that  particu- 
ar  circumstance  of  the  eicluaion  of  Hope  from  those  mfemnl 
•egiona,  are  instances  of  the  same  great  and  fruitful  in- 

'  The  thoughta  la  the  first  speech  and  description  of  Satan, 
ho  ia  one  of  the  principa!  actors  in  this  poem,  are  wonder- 
illy  proper  to  give  ub  a  fid!  idea  of  him.  His  pride,  envy, 
ud  revenge,  obstinacy,  despair,  and  impenitence,  are  all  of 
hem  very  artfully  interwoven.  In  short,  his  first  speech  is 
t  complication  of  all  those  passions  which  discover  them- 
elves  separately  in  several  other  of  his  speechea  in  the  poem. 
Phe  whole  part  of  this  great  enemy  of  mankind  ib  filled  with 
luch  incideDts  as  are  very  apt  to  raise  and  terrily  the  reader's 
tnagination.  Of  this  nature,  in  the  book  now  before  us,  is 
118  being  the  first  that  awakens  out  of  the  general  trance, 
ith  his  posture  on  the  burning  lake,  his  rising  from  it,  aud 
le  description  of  his  shield  and  spear. 

Thus  Satan  talking  to  hia  nearest  m&te. 

With  head  up-lift  above  the  wave,  and  eyta 

That  ipuklins  blazed,  his  otliei  parts  beside 

Prone  on  (he  Sood,  extended  long  and  laigo, 

La;  floating  many  a  rood — 

FoTlhwilh  upright  he  renrs  from  off  the  pool 

Hi»  mighty  italure ;  on  esdi  hand  the  flames 

Driven  backward  slope  Iheir  pointing  spires,  and  rolled 

In  billows,  leave  i'  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 

Then  with  expanded  wines  he  Bleers  his  flight 

Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air. 

That  felt  unuBuai  weight— 

— His  ponderous  shield, 
Elhcreal  remper,  masEV.  large,  and  round. 
Behind  him  cast ;  the  broad  circumrercnce 
Hung  on  hia  shoulders  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artists  liew 
At  evening  from  the  lop  of  Fcsole, 
Or  in  Valdamo,  lo  descry  new  lands, 
Rivers,  or  moujilaina,  in  her  spolly  globe. 
Uia  spear,  lo  equal  which  the  tallest  pine, 
Hewn  ou  Norwegian  hills,  lo  be  the  m»«t 
Of  Hroe  great  admiral,  were  but  n  wand, 

■  Vid.  Uesiod. 

Assisoir'a  itoskh. 

He  walked  nilh  lo  support  uneasy  ateps 
Over  ihe  buraing  mstl — 

To  which  we  may  add  his  call  to  the  fallen  a 
plunged  and  stupified  in  the  sea  of  fire. 

He  called  ao  loud,  that  all  tbe  hollow  deep 

But  there  is  no  single  passage  in  the  whole  poem  worka 
up  to  a  greater  sublimity,  than  that  wherein  his  person  i 
described  in  those  celebrated  linea : 

—He,  alJove  the  real, 
In  shnpe  luid  ^stura  proudly  emineat. 
Stood  like  3.  lower,  &c. 

Hia  sentiments  are  every  way  answerable  to  his  character, 
and  suitable  to  a  ereated  being  of  the  most  exalted  and  de- 
praved nature.  Such  is  that  in  which  he  takes  possesaion 
of  his  place  of  torments. 

^-Hai!  horrors,  hail 
Infernal  world  !  and  thou  profoundest  hell. 
Receive  thy  new  posaeasor  :  one  who  brings 
A.  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  oi  time. 

And  ^terwards, 


We  shall  be  froe ;  the  Alraiphty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy ;  will  not  drive  us  hence ; 
Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  ia  worti  ambition,  though  in  hell : 
Better  to  reign  in  hell,  ihan  aetve  in  heaven. 

Amidst  those  impieties  whieb  this  enraged  spirit  utters  in 
other  places  of  the  poem,  the  author  has  taken  care  to  intro- 
duce none  that  ia  not  big  with  absurdity,  and  incapable  of 
shocking  a  religious  reader;  his  words,  aa  the  poet  describes 
them,  bearing  only  a  "  semblance  of  worth,  not  subatanoe." 
He  is  likewise  with  great  art  described  as  owning  his  adver- 
eary  to  be  almighty.  "Whatever  perverse  interpretation  he 
puts  on  the  juatice,  mercy,  and  other  attributes  of  the  Su- 
preme Being,  he  frequently  confesses  hia  omnipotence,  that 
Being  the  perfection  he  was  forced  to  allow  him,  and  the 
only  conaioeration  which  could  support  hia  pride  under  the 
shame  of  his  defeat. 

Nor  must  I  here  omit  that  beautiful  circumstance  of  his 
bursting  out  in  tears,  upon  his  survey  of  thoae  innimierablt) 

■pirits  whoii.  he  had  involved  in  the  same  guilt  and  ruin  with 


— He  now  preparod 
To  apeak  :  whereat  their  doubled  ranks  they  head 
From  wing  to  wing,  and  half  enclose  him  round 
With  all  his  peers :  aftmtton  held  them  mula. 
Thrice  he  assayeii,  end  thrice,  in  spile  of  scom. 
Tears,  such  as  angeU  weep,  burst  forth — 

The  catalogue  of  evil  spirita  haa  aliundanee  of  learning  in 
it,  and  a  very  agreeable  turn  of  poetry,  which  rises  in  a  great 
measure  from  its  describing  the  places  where  they  were  wor- 
shipped, by  those  beautiiul  marks  of  rivers,  bo  frequent 
amoiigthe  ancient  poets.  The  author  had  doubtless  in  this 
place  Homer's  catalogue  of  shi^a  and  Virgil's  list  of  warriors 
in  his  view.  The  characters  ol  Moloch  and  Belial  prepare 
the  reader's  mind  for  their  respective  speeches  and  behaviour 
in  the  second  and  sixth  book.  The  account  oi'  Tliammuz  is 
fbiely  romantic,  and  suitable  to  what  we  read  among  the 
ancients  of  the  worship  which  was  paid  to  that  idol. 

— Thammuz  came  nesi  behind, 

Whoac  annual  wound  in  Lehanon  allured 

The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  Tale 

In  amorous  ditlies  all  a  Bummer's  day, 

While  amnolh  Adonis  from  his  nalive  rock 

ttan  puqile  to  the  sea,  suppost-d  with  blood 

UfThammuz  yearly  wounded  :  the  love-tale 

Inf^led  Siun's  dauphlers  wilb  like  best, 

Whose  ivsnton  pasiiions  in  the  sacred  porcli 

Ezekiel  saw,  when  by  the  vision  led 

His  eyea  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 

Ofalienated  Judoh— 

The  reader  will  pardon  me  if  I  insert  as  a  note  on  thii 

beautiful  passage,  the  account  given  us  by  the  late  ingenious 

Mr.  Maundrell  of  this  ancient  piece  of  worship,  and  probably 

,    the  first  occasion  of  such  a  superstition.     "  We  came  to  a 

feir  large  river — ^loubtlesa  the   ancient  river   Adonis,   bq 

F  fiimous  for  the  idolatrous  rites  performed  here  in  laraenta- 

l  tion  of  Adonia.     We  had  the  fortune  to  see  what  may  be 

I  Bupposed  to  be  the  occasion  of  that  opinion  which  Lucian 

relates  conceming  this  river,  viz.  that  tnia  stream,  at  certain 

la  of  the  year,  especially  about  tlLO  feast  of  Adonis,  is    ' 

idy  colour ;  which  the  heathens  looked  upon  as  procee 

_om  a  kind  of  sympathy  in  the  river  for  the  death 

[onis,  who  was  killed  hy  a  wild  boar  in  the  mountains,  o 

of  which  this  atream  rieea.     Something  like  thia  we  aawacti 
ally  come  to  pass ;  for  the  water  waa  atained  to  a  ■siirpriai 
redness ;  and,  as  we  observed  in  travelling,  had  discoloure( 
the  aea  a  g^^at  way  into  a  reddiah  hue,  oecaaioned  doubtless 
by  a  aort  of  minium,  or  red  earth,  wanbed  into  the  river  by 
the  violence  of  the  rain,  and  not  by  any  ataiu  from  Adonia'a 

The  passage  in  the  catalogue,  explaining  the  manner  how 
Bpirita  transform  themselves  by  contraction,  or  enlargement 
of  their  dimeuaiona,  ia  introduced  with  great  judgment,  to 
make  way  for  several  surpriaing  accidents  in  the  sequel  of 
the  poem.  There  follows  one,  at  the  very  end  of  the  first 
book,  which  is  what  the  French  critics  call  marvellous,  but 
at  the  same  time  probable,  by  reason  of  the  pasaage  '\a^ 
mentioned.  As  soon  as  the  infernal  palace  is  finished,  wo 
ore  told  the  multitude  and  rabble  of  spirits  immediately 
shrunk  themselves  int|»^  small  compass,  that  there  might  bo 
room  for  auch  a  numberless  asaembly  in  this  capacioua  hall. 
But  it  is  the  poet's  refinement-  upon  this  thought  which  I 
moat  ndinire,  and  which  is,  indeed,  very  noble  in  itself.  For 
he  tells  us,  that,  notwithstanding  the  vulgar,  among  the  fallen 
spirita,  contracted  their  forms,  those  of  the  first  rank 
dignity  still  preserved  their  natural  dimensions. 

Thtia  incorporeal  spirita  to  smallest  foriHB 

Roduced  ihuir  9ha.pes  immeose,  and  were  aX  large, 

Though  without  uiimbor,  still  amidBt  the  hoU 

Of  Dial  infcrtial  court.     But  far  within. 

And  iu  their  own  dimensions  like  themselves, 

The  great  seraphic  lords  and  cherubim, 

In  close  recess  and  secret  conclave  sat, 

A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  scats. 

Frequent  and  full — 
The  character  of  Mammon,  and  the  description  of 
Pandssmonium,  are  full  of  beauties. 

There  are  several  other  atrokea  in  the  first  book  wonder« 
fiilly  poetical,  and  instances  of  that  sublime  genius  so  pecu- 
liar to  the  author.  Such  ia  the  description  of  Azazel'a 
stature,  and  of  the  infernal  standard  which  he  unfurls ;  na 
also  of  thaD  ghastly  light,  by  which  the  fiends  appear  to  one 
another  in  their  pmce  of  torments. 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light, 

Sare  what  the  glimmering  of  thoae  livid  flame* 

Ciat  pale  and  dreadful — 

md  m 


The  ehout  of  the  whole  host  of  fallen  angels  when  drawn 
Up  ia  battle  array : 

— The  universal  host  up  sent 
A  shout  that  tore  hell's  concave,  and  beyond 
Frighted  the  reign  of  Chnos  uid  old  night. 

The  review  which  the  leader  makes  of  hia  infernal  army ; 
— He  through  the  armed  filea 
Daits  his  experienced  eye,  and  bood  traverse 
The  whole  batlalioii  views  their  i>rder  due, 
Their  risnges  and  stature  as  of  gods  ; 

He  spake  :  and  to  cOTiiiTm  his  worda  oot  dew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the  thigh 
Ofmighly  cherubim  :  the  sudden  blazo 
Far  round  illumined  hell — 

The  Budden  production  of  the  Pandwmoninra : 

Anon  Diit  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge 
Boae  like  an.  eihaklion,  >¥ith  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  aymphoniea  and  voices  sweet. 

The  artificial  illuminatioDB  made  in  it : 

■ — From  the  arched  roof. 
Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 
With  naphlha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 
As  from  a  sky.— 

There  are  also  several  noble  sinulea  and  alluaiona  in  the 
first  book  of  Paradiee  Lost.  And  here  I  must  observe,  that 
when  Miltoo  aJlndea  either  to  things  or  persons,  he  never 
quite  hia  simile  till  it  rises  to  some  very  great  ide^,  which  is 
OTten  foreign  to  the  occasion  that  gave  birth  to  it.  The  re- 
Bemblance  does  not,  perhaps,  last  above  a  line  or  two,  but 
the  poet  runs  on  with  the  nint,  tiU  he  has  raised  out  of  it 
Home  glorious  image  or  sentiment,  proper  to  laflame  the 
mind  of  the  reader,  and  to  give  it  that  sublime  kind  of  en-T 
tertainment,  which  is  suitable  to  the  nature  of  an  heroic  | 
poem.  Those  who  are  acquainted  with  Homer's  and  Virgil'B' 
way  of  writine,  cannot  but  be  pleased  with  this  kind  of 
■tructure  in  Hilton's  similitudes.    I  am  the  more  particulw 


on  fhJB  liead,  because  ignomiLt  readers,  who  have  fortned 
theii  taate  upon  the  quaint  siiniles,  oud  little  turns  of  wit, 
which  are  80  much  in  vogue  among  modem  poets,  (%unot 
relish  these  beauties  which  are  of  a  much  higher  nature,  and 
are  therefore  apt  to  censure  Milton's  comparisona,  in  which 
they  do  not  see  any  surprieing  points  of  likeness.  Monsieur 
Peirault  was  a  man  of  this  vitiated  relish,  and  for  that  very 
reason  has  endeavoured  to  turn  into  ridicule  several  of 
Homer's  similitudes,  which  he  calls  Comparaisom  a  tongue 
queue,  "  Long-tailed  comparisons."      I  shall  conclude  this 

fapor  on  the  first  book  of  Milton  with  the  answer  which 
lonsieur  Boileau  makes  to  Perrault  on  this  occasion :  "  Com- 
Sarisons  (says  lie)  in  odes,  and  epic  poems,  are  not  intro- 
uced  only  to  illustrate  aud  embelliah  the  discourse,  but  to 
amuse  and  relax  the  mind  of  the  reader,  by  frequently  dis- 
engaging bim  &om  too  painful  an  attention  to  the  principal 
subject,  and  by  leading  him  into  other  agreeable  images. 
Homer  (says  lie)  excelled  in  this  particular,  whose  compari- 
Bons  abound  with  such  images  of  nature  as  are  proper  to  r&< 
iievo  and  diversify  his  subjects.  He  continually  instructs 
the  reader,  and  makes  liim  take  notice,  even  in  objects  which 
are  every  day  before  our  eyes,  of  such  circumatances  as  we 
should  not  otherwise  have  observed."  To  this  he  adds,  aa  a 
maxim  universally  acknowledged,  "that  it  is  not  necessary 
in  poetry  for  the  points  of  the  comparison  to  correspond 
witli  one  another  exactly,  but  that  a  general  resemblance  is 
sufficient,  and  that  too  much  nicety  in  this  particular  savours 
of  the  rhetorician  and  epigrammatist." 
,     In  short,  if  we  look  mto  the  conduct  of  Homer,  Virgil, 

I'  and  Milton,  as  the  great  lable  is  the  soul  of  each  poem,  so  to 
givi!  their  works  an  agreeable  variety,  their  episodes  are  so 
many  short  fables,  and  their  similes  so  many  snort  episodes ; 
to  which  you  may  add,  if  you  please,  that  their  metaphors 
ant  80  many  short  similes.  If  tbe  reader  considers  the  com- 
parisons in  the  first  book  of  Milton,  of  the  sun  in  an  eclipse, 
of  the  sleeping  leviathan,  of  the  bees  swarming  about  the 
hive,  of  the  fairy  dance,  in  the  view  wherein  I  have  placed 
them,  he  will  easily  discover  the  great  beauties  that  are  Id 
each  of  those  passages. 



I  HATE  before  observed  in  general,  that  the  pereons  whom 
?Til^  n"_  ji^TTiil  1 1  r-p«  into  his  poem  always  discoyer  such  een- 
^imen'tB.and'BeRaviour,  as  are  in  a  peculiar   manner  con- 

Mi  to  their  respective  characters.  Every  circumstance 

their  speeches^nHactions  ia  with  great  jnatness  and  deli- 
cacy adapted  to  the  persona  who  speat  and  act.  Ab  the  poet 
Tery  m\ich.Bii^fljn.-thi8  conBiatenej  of  hia  characters,  I  shall 
leg  leave  to  consider  several  passages  of  the  second  book  in 
this  light.  That  superior  greatness,  and  mock-majesty, 
"which  is  ascribed  to  the  prince  of  the  fallen  angels,  is  admir- 
ably preserved  in  the  beginning  of  this  book.  His  opening 
And  closing  the  debate ;  his  taking  on  himself  that  great  en- 
terprise at  the  thought  of  which  the  whole  infernal  assem- 
"bly  trembled;  his  enconntering  the  hideous  phantom  who 
guarded  the  gates  of  heJl,  and  appeared  to  him  in  all  hia 
terrors ;  are  instances  of  that  proud  and  daring  mind  which 
fiould  not  brook  submission  even  to  omnipof«nee. 

Satan  waa  now  at  huid,  and  fr( 
The  monster  moving,  onward  camH  as  fast 
With  horrid,  strides :  hell  trembled  aa  lie  strode. 
Th'  undaunted  fiend  ivhal  this  might  be  ftdmired ; 
Admired,  not  feared — 

The  same  boldness  and  intrepidity  of  behaviour  discovers 
itself  in  the  several  adventures  which  he  meets  with  during 
his  passage  through  the  regions  of  unformed  matter,  antl 
particularly  in  his  address  to  those  tremendous  powers  who 
■re  described  as  presiding  over  it. 

The  part  of  Moloch  is  likewise  in  ail  its  circumstances 
fiill  of  that  Are  and  fury  which  distinguish  this  spirit  from 
the  rest  of  the  fallen  angels.  Ho  is  described  in  the  first 
book  OB  besmeared  with  the  blood  of  human  sacrifices,  and 
delighted  with  the  tears  of  parents  and  the  cries  of  children. 
In  the  second  book  he  ia  marked  out  as  the  fiercest  spirit 
that  fought  in  heaven ;  and  if  we  consider  the  figure  which 
lie  makes  in  the  siith  book,  where  the  battle  of  the  a 

Annsos's  vuses. 

r  vsj  BOframble  to  t 

u  deacribed,  ve  fiod  it  ere 
fitrunu  ennged  cfaancter. 

— WlKTe  the  mi^oTGilnd  dagia, 

AdJ  wilL  fiemcBK^i  pieicrt  Ihe  deepunj 

<X  Uolodi,  (niiam  kiBg,  irito  Unt  &Aed. 

An)  It  hk  diuioi-irkedi  todng  bim  boimid 

Threucned,  nor  fpmt  lite  Holr  One  of  bearcn 

Ktiiaiati  Jot  lonpic  bla^hemon* ;  but  incii 

I>u«ii  clmen  lo  Ifae  iraste,  inlh  shtltered  umi 

And  DDCovth  pun  fled  bellowiiig. — 
Tt  mar  be  worth  while  to  obserre,  that  Milton  h 
eented  ttiis  Tiolent  impetooiis  spirit,  who  is  hurried  on  by 
iuch  precipitate  posaions,  aa  the  jfrrt  that  riaea  in  that  ae- 
sembly,  to  give  his  opimoa  upon  their  present  posture  of 
nfDiirs.  Accordingly  ne  declares  himself  abruptly  for  war, 
and  appears  incensed  at  his  eompaniona,  for  losing  so  much 
time  as  even  to  deliberate  upon  it.  AH  his  seutimeuta  are 
rash,  audacious,  and  desperate.  Sucb  is  that  of  urmiug  them- 
Velvea  with  tortures,  and  turning  their  punishmenta  i 
him  who  inflicted  them. 

— No.  let  us  rather  ctoosi 
Armed  wit]]  liell-Uamce  and  fury,  iii 

Tumin^c  our  I 

AgniiiBt  the  lo 

Of  hia  Almighty  eujine  he  Bhall  bear 
Jnlumsl  Ihundet,  and  for  lightniug  see 
Black  flro  and  hoiror  shot  with  i^uai  ntge 
Among  hia  anKcIg ;  nnd  his  throne  itself 
Mixl  with  Ta/larcan  sulphur,  and  Strang  iire, 
Hia  own  invented  tormenla — 

I  ufo^ 


His  prelerring  annihilation  to  shame  or   miseir  is  ako 

[hly  Btiitablo  to  his  character;  ae  the  comfort  he  drawa 

"    '    dinturbing  the  peace  of  heaven,  that  if  it  be  not 

Kfjctory,  it 
■  bt'ciiKiiii:;  In 

Hrlinl  L<.l 

ftllJ    lllMII-llH 

lool<  iiiti)  til 
of  nuKels  fi 
waKi»H  to  Siitmi,  01 
iia  liin  a|ii)CBriiricii 
luToral  vn" 

'Hue,  is  II   sentiment  truly  diabolical,  and 

iitli'j'iicBB  of  this  implacable  spirit. 

rihid  ill  the  first  book  as  the  idol  of  the  lewd 

III'  is  in  the  second  book,  pursufint  to  that 

iii-[icfi'rized  as  timorous  and  slothful,  and  if  we 

i  xtli  book,  we  find  him  celebrated  in  the  battle 

nothing  but  that  scoffing  speech  which  he 

leir  supposed  advantage  over  the  enemy. 

unifonn,  and  of  a  piece  in  these  three 

lliid  his  seutiments  in  the  infernal  assem- 

■  Xo.  909.  THE   BPROT^TOS.  21S 

,    lily  erery  waj-  conformable  to  his  eharacter.     Such  are  bis 

apprehensiona  of  a  second  battle,  his  horrors  of  annihilfltion, 
I    his  preferring  to  he  miserable  rather  than  "  not  to  be."     I 

need  not  observe,  that  the  contrast  of  thought  in  this  speech, 

aad  that  which  precedes  it,  gives  an  agreeable  variety  to  the 


Mammon'a  character  is  so  fully  drawn  in  the  first  book, 
[  that  the  poet  adds  nothing  to  it  in  the  second.  AVe  were 
I  before  told,  that  lie  was  the  first  who  taught  mankind  to 
[  ransack  the  earth  for  gold  and  silver,  and  that  he  was  the 
[  architect  of  Pandjemonium,  or  the  infernal  palace,  where  the 

evil  spirits  were  to  meet  in  council.  Hia  speech  in  this  book 
I  is  everywhere  suitable  to  so  depraved  a  character.  How 
I  proper  is  that  reflection,  of  their  being  unable  to  taste  the 

Lappinesa  of  heaven  were  they  actually  there,  in  the  mouth 
I   of  one,  who  while  he  was  in  heaven  is  said  to  have  had  hia 

mind  dazaled  with  the  outward  pomps  and  glories  of  the 
'  place,  and  to  have  been  more  intent  on  the  riches  of  the 

pavement  than  ou  the  beatific  vision.  I  shall  also  leave  the 
I  reader  to  judge  how  agreeable  the  following  sentiments  are 
\  to  the  same  character. 

—This  ficep  world 

Of  darkness  do  we  drend  ?  how  oil  nmidst 

Thick  cloud  and  dark  dolh  hoUTen's  all-ruling  aire 

Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unubecured, 

And  •Kith  tlut  niajesty  of  dutlcTieas  round 
t  Covers  hiE  throne,  from  whence  deep  thunders  roar 
w  U ustering  their  rage,  and  heaven  resembles  belt  1 

Aa  he  our  darfcneaa,  cannot  we  his  light 

Iraitale  when  we  please  ?  This  desert  soil 

Wants  not  her  hidden  lustre,  gesoB  and  gold  ; 

Nor  want  we  skill,  or  art,  trom  whence  to  raise 

Magnificence  ;  and  what  can  heaven  aliow  more  ? 

Beelzebub,  who  is  reckoned  the  second  in  dignity  that  fell, 
and  is  in  the  first  book  the  second  that  awakens  out  of  the 
I  trance,  and  confers  with  Satan  upon  the  situation  of  their 
I  affairs,  maintains  his  rank  in  the  book  now  before  us.  There 
I  is  a  wonderful  majesty  described  in  his  rising  up  to  speak. 
He  acts  as  a  kind  of  moderator  between  the  two  opposite 
I  jjarties,  and  proposes  a  third  undertaking,  which  the  whole 
\  assembly  gives  in  to.  The  motion  he  makes  of  detaching  one 
[  irf  their  body  in  search  of  a  new  world  ia  grotmded  upon  a 

214  ADDlaOIf  B  wonna. 

project  deiised  by  Satan,  and  curaorily  propoaed  by  b 
the  foUowing  lines  ol"  the  flrat  book. 

Spaca  tanj  produce  new  worlds,  whereof  so  rife 

There  wont  a  fune  in  baaren,  thnt  he  ere  long 

Intended  to  create,  uid  tiiereia  plant 

A  generation,  whom  hia  choice  renurd 

Should  iavour  equal  to  the  sons  of  heuvea  : 

Tliillier,  if  but  to  pry,  ahaJl  be  perhups 

Our  first  eniplion,  thither  or  elsewhere  ; 

For  this  iofemal  pit  ihall  never  hold 

Celestial  spirila  in  bondage,  nor  the  abyss 

Long  under  darkneas  cover.    But  thEse  thoughts 

Full  counsel  must  mature  ;  — 
It  ta  on  thia  project  that  Beelzebub  groimda  his  propoi 
— Whttiifwefii 
!r  cnterprisa  ?     There  is 


d  prophetic  fami 

not)  another  world,  tho  happy  seal 
ui  eome  new  race  callud  Man,  abont  tliis  tloie 
To  he  created  like  lo  us,  though  less 
In  power  and  excellence,  but  favoured  more 
Of  liim  who  rules  above ;  so  was  his  will 
Pronounced  amonR  the  gods,  and  by  an  oath. 
That  shook  lieaven's  whole  circumference,  oanErmed. 

The  reader  may  observe  how  just  it  was,  not  to  omit  m 
the  first  book  tho  project  upon  which  the  whole  poem  turns; 
as  alao  that  the  prince  of  the  faileu  angels  was  the  only  pro- 
j»r  person  to  give  it  birth,  and  that  lie  next  to  him  m  dig- 
uiW  was  the  fittest  to  support  it. 
I  There  is  besides,  I  think,  something  woDderfully  beautiful, 
I  and  very  apt  to  affect  the  reader's  imagination,  in  this  anci- 
'  ent  prophecy  or  report  in  heaven,  concerning  the  creation  of 
man.  Nothing  could  show  more  the  dignity  of  the  species, 
than  this  tradition  which  ran  of  them  before  their  esiatence. 
They  are  represented  to  have  been  the  tali  of  heaven,  before 
they  were  created.  Virgil,  in  compliment  to  the  Boman 
common-wealth,  makes  the  heroes  of  it  appear  in  their  state 
of  pre-esiatenco ;  but  Milton  does  a  lar  greater  honour  to 
mankind  in  general,  as  he  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  them  even 
before  they  are  in  being. 

The  rising  of  thia  great  asaembly  is  described  in  a  veir 
sublime  and  poetical  manner,  ' 

Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  heard  remote — 

ay  1 


The  diveraiona  of  the  fuller  angela,  with  the  particular  ac- 
count of  their  place  of  habitation,  are  described  with  great 
Sregnancy  of  thought,  and  copiousneHs  of  invention.  The 
iveraions  are  every  way  auitable  to  beings  who  had  nothing 
left  them  but  strength  and  knowledge  misapplied.  Such  are 
their  contentiona  at  the  race,  and  in  feats  or  arms,  with  their 
entertainment  in  the  following  lines. 

Others  with  vast  Typhean  rngo  more  fell 
Hend  up  both  rocks  wid  hills,  and  ride  the  air 
In  whitlwiiid ;  heil  Ecarce  holds  the  wild  uproar. 

Their  music  is  employed  in  celebrating  their  own  criminal 
exploits,  and  their  discourse  in  sounding  the  unfathomable 
depths  of  fate,  free-will,  and  fore-knowledge. 

The  several  circiunstancea  in  the  description  of  hell  are 
finely  imagined ;  as  the  four  rivers  which  disgorge  themselves 
into  the  sea  of  fire,  the  extremes  of  cold  and  heat,  and  the 
river  of  oblivion.  The  monstrous  animals  produced  in  that 
infernal  world  are  represented  by  a  single  line,  whicb  gives 
us  a  more  horrid  idea  of  them,  than  a  much  longer  descrip- 
tion would  have  done. 

— Nature  breeds 

Perverse,  all  monstroua,  all  prodigious  things, 

Abominable,  inu(t«rable,  and  worse 

Than  iables  yet  have  felgried  or  fear  conceived, 

Gorgons,  and  hydma,  and  chimeras  dire. 

This  episode  of  the  fallen  spirits,  and  their  pla^e  of  ha- 
bitation, cornea  in  very  happily  to  unbend  the  mind  of  the 
reader  from  its  attention  to  the  debate.  An  ordinary  poet 
would  indeed  have  spun  out  so  many  circumstances  to  a  great 
length,  and  by  that  means  have  weakened,  instead  of  illus- 
trated,' the  principal  fable. 

The  flight  of  Satan  to  the  gates  of  hell  is  finely  imagined. 

I  have  aJready  declared  my  opinion  of  the  allegory  con- 
cerning 8iu  and  Death,  which  is,  however,  a  very  finished 
piece  in  its  kind,  when  it  is  not  considered  as  a  part  of  an 
epio  poem.  The  genealogy  of  the  several  persons  is  con- 
trived with  great  delicacy.  Sin  is  the  daughter  of  Satan, 
and  Death  the  ofispring  of  Sin.  The  incestuous  mixture 
between  Sin  and  Death  produces  those  monsters  and  hell- 
hounds  which  from  time  to  time  enter  into  their  mother, 



and  tear  tlie  bowels  of  her  who  gave  ttem  birth,  These  are 
the  t^rrora  of  aji  evil  conscience,  ami  the  proper  &uita  of  Sin, 
which  nutupally  rise  from  the  apprehenBiona  "of  Death.  This 
loat  beautiful  moral  is,  I  think,  clearly  intimated  in  the 
Hpooch  of  Sin,  vrhere  complaining  of  this  her  dreadful  ia: 
■he  adds, 

Before  mine  eyes  in  oppositioti  eita 

Grim  Do>.lh,  my  son  and  foe,  who  tela  them  on, 

And  mo  his  psrcnt  wonid  full  Boon  deTouc 

For  want  afalhcr  prey,  but  that  he  knowa, 

Hii  end  wiib  mina  mTolved— 

I  need  not  mention  to  the  reader  the  beautiful  clrcum- 

ttlinco  in  the  last  part  of  this  quotation.     He  will  likewiao 

ohiinrvQ  how  naturally  the  three  peraona  concerned  in  tbii 

allegory  are  tenipted'by  one  common  interest  to  enter  into 

a  confederacy  together,  and  how  properly  Sin  is  made  tha 

portroBB  of  hell,  aud  the  only  being  that  can  open  the  gates 

to  that  world  of  torturee. 

The  descriptive  part  of  this  allegory  is  liltewiae  very  Btrong, 
and  full  of  sublime  ideas.  The  figure  of  Death,  tho  regal 
cniwii  upon  bis  head,  hie  meimce  of  Satan,  hia  advancing  to 
the  combat,  thu  outcry  at  his  birth,  are  circumatancea  too 
noble  to  bo  paased  over  in  silence,  and  extremely  suitable  to 
this  King  01  Turrors.  1  need  not  mention  the  justneaa  of 
thouRht  which  ia  observed  iu  the  generation  of  these  several 
Bymbolioal  persons,  that  Sin  waa  produced  upon  the  firetf 
revolt  of  Satan,  that  Death  appeared  soon  after  he  waa  cast 
into  hell,  and  that  the  tcrrora  of  conscience  were  conceived 
at  tho  Rate  of  this  place  of  torments,  Tlie  description  of^ 
the  gntuB  is  very  poetical,  aa  the  opening  of  them  is  full  of 
Miltou'a  spirit, 

—  On  a  siidden  oi>cn  flv, 
Wirli  impptilous  recoil  and  jniring  sound, 
Tho  inlunial  doora,  and  un  Iheir  hingea  grate 
Harth  lliundar,  that  tho  lowest  bottom  shook 
Of  UiahtM.    Sho  oponcd,  but  to  shut 
BxMllbd  hsr  power  i  tha  gatM  fiAe  open  stood, 
ThftI  with  attended  wings  a  baiuierad  hast 
DndoT  apiMd  pnslpM  marohiiiiE  might  pass  through 
With  hono  Mill  cbaHou  raiikvd  in  looso  array ; 
S.)  wido  lliay  aluod.  and  liko  a  l\inmen  mouth 
l^sl  forth  mlounding  aiuolc«  and  ruddy  flnnift 
In  Sntaii's  viiynpi  through  tlie  Chftos,  there  are  severml 
limtyitmry  pcrwiMia  tlo8cribt\l,  aa  residing  in  that  inui 


!iste  of  matter.  This  may  perhaps  be  eonfonn»ble  to  tlie 
Bte  of  those  critics  who  are  pleaaed  with  nothing  in  a  poet 
which  haa  not  Kfe  and  manners  ascribed  to  it ;  but  for  my 
■pwn  part  I  am  pleaaed  most  with  those  paasagCB  in  this  de- 
jicription  which  carry  in  them  a  greater  measure  of  proba- 
bility, and  are  such  aa  might  possibly  have  happened.  Of 
fihiB  Kind  ia  hia  first  mounting  m  the  smoke  that  rises  Irom 
'ihe  inferual  pit,  his  faliing  into  a  cloud  of  nitre,  and  the  like 
wmbuetible  materials,  that  by  their  explosioa  still  hurried 
lim  forward  in  his  voyage ;  his  springing  upward  hke  a 
pyramid  of  fire,  with  his  laborious  passage  through  that  con- 
fusion of  elements,  which  the  poet  calk 

The  vromli  of  nataie  and  perhaps  her  glare. 
The  glimmering  light  which  shot  into  the  Chaos  from  the 
ntmost  vei^e  of  the  creation,  with  the  distant  diacovery  of 
the  earth  that  hung  close  by  the  moon,'  are  wonderiuUy 
1>eautiful  and  poetical. 

■STo.  315.     SATTJEDAT,  MAECH  1. 

Ncc  deuB  interait,  nisi  dignua  Tindice  nodua 
Inclderit—  HoR. 

HOBAOE  advises  a  poet  to  consider  thoroughly  the  nature 

Md  force  of  hia  genius.     Milton  seems  to  have  known  peis 

"  ictly  well  wherein  hia  atrength  lay,  and  haa  therefore  chosen 

Bubject  entirely  conformable  to  thoae  talents  of  which  he 

as  master.     As  his  genius  was  wouderfiilly  turned  to  the 

iblime,  his  subject  is  the  noblest  that  could  have  entered 

ito  the  thoughts  of  man.     Everything  that  is  truly  ^reat 

id  astonishing  haa  a  place  in  it.     The  whole  system  ot  the 

mtellectual  world;   the  Chaoa,  and  the  creation;   heaven, 

earth,  and  hell ;  enter  into  the  constitution  of  his  poem. 

Having  iu  the  firat  and  second  book  represented  the  in- 
fernal world  with  all  its  horrora,  the   thread  of  his  ia.hle 
naturally  leads  him  into  the  opposite  regions  of  bliaa  and 
It  Milton's  majesty  forsakes  him  anywhere,  it  is  in  thoae 
'  JSy  the  moon.]   Mr.  Addiaon  mistakes  Iho  sense  of  thia  pBasagB,— Seo 
t.  Newton's  note  on  the  place. 

218  addtsoit's  wobks.  ' 

parts  of  hia  poem,  w  here  the  Divine  persons  are  introduced 
speakers.  One  may,  I  thiak,  observe  that  the  author  pro* 
ceeds  with  a  kind  of  fear  and  trembling,  whilst  he  descnbea 
the  sentiments  of  the  Almighty.  He  dares  not  give  his 
imagination  its  full  play,  but  chooses  to  confine  himself  to 
euch  thoughts  as  are  drawn  from  the  books  of  the  moat  or- 
thodox diTines,  and  to  such  expressions  as  may  be  met  with  in 
Scripture.  The  beauties,  therefore,  which  we  are  to  look  for 
io  these  speeches,  are  not  of  a  poetical  nature,  nor  so  proper 
to  fill  the  mind  with  sentiments  of  grandeur,  as  with  thoughts 
of  devotion,  The  passiona  which  they  are  designed  to  raise, 
are  a  divine  love  and  religious  fear.  The  particular  beauty 
of  the  speeches  in  the  third  book  consists  in  that  shortneaa 
and  perspicuity  of  style,  in  which  the  poet  has  couched  tlie 
greatest  mysteries  of  Christianity,  and  drawn  together,  in  a, 
regular  scheme,  the  whole  dispensation  of  Providence,  with 
respect  to  man.  He  has  represented  all  the  abstruse  doctrines 
of  predestination,  free-wili,  and  grace,  as  also  the  great  points 
of  the  incarnation  and  redemption,  (which  naturally  grow  up 
in  a  poem  that  treats  of  the  fall  of  man,)  with  great  energy 
of  espression,  and  in  a  clearer  and  stronger  light  than  ever 
I  met  with  in  any  other  writer.  As  these  points  are  dry  in 
themselves  to  the  generality  of  readers,  tbe  concise  and  clear 
manner  iu  which  he  has  treated  them  is  very  much  to  be  ad- 
mired, as  is  likewise  that  particular  art  which  he  has  made 
use  of,  in  the  interspersing  of  all  those  graces  of  poetry, 
which  the  subject  was  capable  of  receiving. 

The  STirvey  of  the  whole  creation,  and  of  everything  that 
is  transacted  in  it,  is  a  prospect  worthy  of  omniscience ;  and 
as  much  above  that,  in  which^  Virgil  has  drawn  his  Jupiter, 
as  the  Christian  idea,  of  the  Supreme  Being  is  more  rational 
and  sublime  than  that  of  the  heathens.  The  particular  ob- 
jects on  which  he  is  described  to  have  cast  his  eye,  are  repi  ~ 
■ented  in  the  most  beautiful  and  lively  manner. 

Now  Imd  the  Almighty  Father  tcom  abnTe, 

From  the  pure  empyrean  where  he  sila 

Hi^  throned  above  a.11  height,  bent  down  his  eye. 

His  own  works  and  their  works  at  onee  to  view. 

Ahoiit  him  all  the  sanctities  of  heaven 

Stood  thick  as  stars,  sjid  from  his  sight  reeeived 



o.  aiB. 


Beatitude  past  ull Bran cc  :  on  hia  right 
Thu  radiant  image  of  his  glory  sal, 
Hia  ouly  &on ;  on  earth  he  liist  beheld 
Our  two  first  paronta,  yet  the  only  two 
Of  niankind,  in  the  happy  garden  placed, 
Reaping  immortal  fniila  of  joy  and  loTe, 
Uninterrupted  joy,  unritalled  love. 
In  hlissfiil  solitude ;  ho  then  surveyed 
Hell  and  the  gulf  between,  and  Satan  there 
Coasting  the  wall  of  hearen  uti  llila  side  night. 
In  the  dun  air  eublime,  and  ready  now 
To  stoop  with  wearied  wings  and  willing  feet 
On  the  bare  outside  of  this  world,  that  seemed 
Firm  laml  imbosomed  without  firmament, 
Uacerlain  which,  in  ocean  or  in  air. 
Him  God  beholding  from  bis  prospect  high, 
Wherein  past,  preaenl,  future,  he  beholds, 
Thus  to  his  only  Son  foiEfleeing  spake. 
Satan' B  approttch  to  the  confiiiee  of  tLe  creation,  i 

maged  in  the  beginning  of  the  apeei;h  which  imiDediiitely  fol- 
DW8.     The  effects  of  thia  Bpeecci  in  the  blessed  spirits,  and 

I  the  Divine  person  to  whom  it  vaa  addressed,  cannot  but 

II  the  mind  of  the  reader  with  a  secret  pleasure  and  corn- 

Thus  while  God  spake,  ambrosinl  fragrance  tilled 
All  heaven,  and  in  the  blessed  spirits  eleut 
Sense  of  new  joy  ineffable  dilfused '. 
Beyond  compare  the  Son  of  God  was  seen 
Most  glorious,  in  him  a)l  big  Father  shone 
Substantially  espreased,  and  in  hia  face 
Divine  compassion  visibly  appeared, 
Lave  without  end,  and  without  measure  grace. 

I  need  not  point  out  the  beauty  of  that  circumstance, 
IrlieTein  tho  whole  host  of  aogels  are  represented  as  standing 
oute  i  nor  show  how  proper  the  occasion  was  to  produce 
a  silence  in  heaven.  The  close  of  thia  divine  colloquy, 
rith  the  hymn  of  angels  that  follows  upon  it,  are  so  wonder- 
lUy  beautiful  and  poetical,  that  I  should  not  forbear  insert- 
tg  the  whole  passage,  if  the  bounds  of  my  paper  would  give 
ae  leave. 

No  sooner  had  the  Almighty  ceased,  bat  all 
The  multitudes  of  angels  with  a  shout. 

As  from  blest  voices  ulteriiiE  joy,  heaven  rung 
With  jubilee,  and  loud  hosanniis  filled 
The  eternal  regions  ;  &c. — 
in's  walk  upon  the  outside  of  the  universe,  which,  at  b 


Adsihos'b   WnSKS. 

diBtance,  appeared  to  him  of  a  globular  form,  tut,  upon  h 
nearer  approach,  looked  like  an  unbounded  plain,  ia  natur__ 
and  noble.  Aa  hia  roaming  upon  the  frontiers  of  the  crea- 
tion, between  that  masa  of  matter  which  was  wrought  into 
a  world,  and  that  shapelesa,  unformed  heap  of  materials, 
which  still  lay  ia  chaos  and  confusion,  strikes  the  imaginar- 
tion  with  Bomething  aHtonisliiiigly  great  and  wild.  I  have 
before  spoken  of  the  Limbo  of  Vanity,  which  the  poet  places 
upon  this  uttermost  surface  of  the  uaiverae,  ancf  shall  her© 
explain  myself  more  at  large  on  that  and  other  parts  of  thaa 
poem,  which  are  of  the  same  abadowy  nature. 

Aristotle  obaerves,  that  the  fable  in  an  epic  poem  e 
abound  in  cireuraataneea  that  are  both  credible  and  astonishii, 
iug ;  or,  oa  the  French  critica  choose  to  phrase  it,  the  fabiji 
should  be  filled  with  the  probable  and  the  Biarvelloua.  Thi 
rule  is  aa  fine  imd  just  aa  any  in  Aristotle's  whole  Art  ( 
Poetry.  _ 

If  the  fable  is  only  probable,  it  differa  nothing  from  a  true 
history ;  if  it  ia  only  marvelloua,  it  ia  no  better  than  a  ro- 
mance, Tho  great  secret,  therefore,  of  heroic  poetry,  ia  to 
relate  such  circum stances,  aa  may  produce  in  the  reader  at 
the  same  time  both  belief  and  astonishment.  This  ia  brought 
to  pass  in  a  well-chosen  fable,  by  the  account  of  such  thin^ 
as  have  really  happened,  or  at  leuat  of  such  things  aa  have 
happened  according  to  the  received  opinions  of  mankind.  ^ 
lUjlton'a  fable  ia  a  master-piece  of  this  nature  ;  aa  the 
in  heaven,  the  condition  of  the  iallen  angels,  the  atate  ol 
nocence,  the  temptation  of  the  aerpent,  and  the  fiill  of  b 
though  they  are  very  aatonishing  ia  themselves,  are  not  on] 
credible,  but  actual  points  of  faith. 

/'The  nest  method  of  reconciling  miracles  with  credibi 
^ia  by  a  happy  invention  of  the  poet ;  aa  in  particular,  w 
he  introduces  agenta  of  a  superior  nature,  who  are  cap 
of  effecting  what  ia  wonderftil,  and  what  ia  not  to  be 
with  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things.  Ulysses'a  ahip  bein 
turned  into  a  rock,  and  .^neaa'a  fleet  into  a  aboal  of  wate 
nympha,  though  they  are  very  surprising  accidents,  i 
nevertheless  probable,  when  we  are  told  that  they  were  t 
gods  who  thus  tranalbrmed  them.  It  is  this  kind  of  machii 
which  fills  the  poems  both  of  Homer  and  Virgil  with  s 
'  circumstances  as  are  wonderful,  but  not  impossible,  and  t 
frequently  produced  the  reader  the  most  pleasing  pasaioajl 

,t  can  rise  in  the  mind  of  man,  which  is  iidiniratioiiJ  -  If 
e  be  any  instance  in  the  .Eneid  liable  to  exception  upon 
!  account,  it  is  in  the  beginning  of  the  third  book,  where 
Eneaa  is  represented  as  tearing  up  the  myrtle  that  dropped 
llood.  To  qualify  thia  wonderful  circumstance,  PolydoruB 
a  etory  from  the  root  of  the  myrtle,  that  the  barborouB 
bhabitants  of  the  country  having  pierced  him  with  apeara 
iid  arrows,  the  wood  which  was  left  in  his  body  took  root 
1  his  wounda,  and  gave  birf^h  to  that  bleeding  tree.  This 
drcumstance  seems  to  have  the  mMrellous  without  the  pro- 
lable,  because  it  is  represented  as  proceeding  from  natural 
auses,  without  the  interposition  of  any  god,  or  other  super- 
latural  power  capable  of  producing  it:  the  apeara  and  arrows 
X)w  of  themselves,  without  so  much  as  the  modem  help  of 
^—-  1  enchantment.  If  we  look  into  the  fiction  of  Milton'a 
kble,  though  we  find  it  full  of  surpriBing  incidents,  they  are 
l^enerally  suited  to  our  notions  of  the  thinm  and  persona  de- 
leribed,  and  tempered  with  a  due  measure  of  probability.  I 
taust  only  make  an  exception  to  the  Limbo  of  Vanity,  with 
lis  epiaode  of  Sin  and  Death,  and  some  of  the  imaginary  per- 
due in  hia  chaos.  These  passages  are  astonishing,  but  not 
redible ;  the  reader  cannot  so  far  impose  upon  himself  as  to 
,_e  a  possibility  in  them  ;  they  are  the  description  of  dreams 
ind  shadows,  not  of  things  or  persons.  I  know  that  many 
a  look  upon  the  stories  of  Circe,  Polypherae,  the  Syrens, 
_ ,  the  whole  Odyssey  and  Iliad,  to  be  aUegories ;  but 
llowing  this  to  be  true,  they  are  fables,  which,  considering  J 
be  opinions  of  mankind  that  prevailed  in  the  age  of  thu  1 
ight  possibly  have  been  according  to  the  letter.  • 
le  persons  are  such  as  might  have  acted  what  is  ascribed 
them,  ae  the  circmnatancea  in  which  they  are  repreaented 
-;ht  possibly  have  been  truths  and  realities.  This  appear- 
108  ol  probability  is  so  absolutely  requisite  in  the  greater 
flds  of  poetry,  that  Aristotle  obaer\*e8,  the  ancient  tragic 
ritera  made  use  of  the  names  of  auch  great  men  as  had  ae- 
lally  lived  in  the  world,  though  the  tragedy  proceeded  upon 
iventurea  they  were  never  engaged  in,  on  purpose  to  make 
LB  Bubject  more  credible.  In  a  word,  beaidea  the  hiddea 
eaning  of  au  epic  allegory,  the  plain  literal  sense  ought  to 
jpeBT  probable.  The  story  should  be  such  as  an  orfinary 
ntkr  may  acquiesce  in,  whatever  natural,  moral,  or  political 
utk  may  be  aiscoTraed  in  it  by  men  of  greater  penetratioiL 

AnDiaON  S   WOBKS. 

Satan,  after  taving  long  wandered  upon  the  aurfaoe 
outnioBt  wall  of  the  universe,  discovers  at  last  a  wide  gap 
it,  which  lei  into  the  creation,  and  is  deecribed  aa  the  opeo^ 
iug  through  whiuh  the  angels  pass  to  and  fro  intfl  the  lower 
world,  upon  their  errands  to  mankind.  His  sitting  upon  the 
brink  of  thia  passage,  and  taking  a  survey  of  the  whole  &ce 
of  natlire,  that  appeared  to  him  new  and  fresh  in  a^  its 
beauties,  with  the  simUe  illustrating  this  circuia stance,  fillit 
the  mind  of  the  reader  with  aa  surprising  and  glorious  an 
idea  as  any  that  arises  in  the  whole  poera.  He  looks  down 
iuto  that  vast  hollow  of  the  universe  with  the  eye,  or  (aa  Mil- 
ton calls  it  in  hia  first  book)  with  the  ken  of  an  angel.  He 
Burseya  all  the  wonders  in  this  immenae  amphitheatre  that 
lie  between  both  the  poles,  of  heaven,  and  takes  in  at  on9_ 
view  the  whole  round  of  the  creation. 

His  flight  between  the  several  worlda  that  ahined  on  e 
side  of  him,  with  the  particular  description  of  the  sun. 
Bet  forth  in  all  the  wantonness  of  a  luxuriant  imaginatii 
His  shape,  speech,  and  behaviour,  upon  his  transforming  him- 
self  into  an  angel  of  light,  are  touched  with  esquiaite  beauty. 
The  poet's  thought  of  directing  Satan  to  the  sun,  which  in 
the  vulgar  opinion  of  mankind  is  the  most  conspicuous  part 
of  the  creation,  and  the  placing  in  it  an  angel,  is  a  circum- 
Btanee  very  finely  contrived,  and  the  more  adjusted  to  a 
poetical  probability,  aa  it  waa  a  received  doctrine  among  the 
most  famouB  philosophers,  that  every  orb  had  its  intelligence ; 
and  as  an  apostle  in  sacred  writ  is  said  to  have  seen  such  an 
angel  in  the  aun.  In  the  answer  which  this  angel  retuma  to 
the  diaguiaed  evil  spirit,  there  is  such  a  becoming  majesty  as 
is  altogether  suitable  to  a  superior  being.  The  part  of  it  in 
which  he  represents  himself  aa  present  at  the  creation,  is 
Tery  noble  in  itself,  and  not  only  proper  where  it  is  intro- 
duced, but  requisite  to  prepare  the  reader  for  what  followB  * 
the  seventh  book. 

I  saw,  when  at  hia  word  tliG  formless  mass. 
Thia  world'a  materia!  mould,  came  to  a  hoap : 
Confusion  hesrd  his  vuivo,  and  wild  uproar 
Stood  ruled,  stood  vaat  inRniliide  outifined  ; 
Til!  at  his  second  bidding  darkness  fled, 
Light  shone,  &c. 




fbrbear  fancying  himself  employed  on  the  same  distant  ciew 

Look  downward  on  the  globe,  whose  hither  Bide 
Wilh  light  from  henco,  thougli  but  reUecled,  shuies ; 
That  place  ia  earth,  the  seat  of  man ;  tlist  light 
His  day,  &c. 
I  must  not  conclude  my  reflectiona  upon  this  third  book 
rf  Paradise  Loat,  without  taking  notice  of  thiit  celebrated 
jomplaint  of  Milton  with  which  it  opens,  and  which  cer- 
ainly  deserves  all  the  praises  that  have  been  given  to  it ; 
though,  as  I  have  before  hiuted,  it  may  rather  be  looked 
IipoD  as  an  excreecence,  than  as  an  essential  pail  of  the 
Iioem.     The   same   observation  might   be   applied   to  that 

)eautiful  digression  upon  hypocrisy,  in  the  s: 

e  book, 

No.  321,     SATURDAY,  MAitCH  8. 

Nee  satis  cat  pulchra  eese  poem&ta.,  dnlcia  aiuito.  Uor. 
Those  who  know  how  many  volumes  have  been  written  i 
bn  the  poems  of  Horace  and  Virgil,  vpill  easUy  pardon  the 
length  of  my  discourse  upon  Milton.  The  Paradise  Loat  is 
looked  upon  by  the  best  judges,  as  the  greatest  production, 
p  at  least  the  noblest  work  of  genius,  in  our  language,  and 
herefore  deserves  to  be  set  before  an  English  reader  in  its 
foil  beauty.  For  this  reason,  though  I  have  endeavoured  to 
nve  a,  general  idea  of  its  graces  and  imperfections  in  my  six 
ret  papers,  I  thought  myself  obliged  to  bestow  one  upon 
rery  book  in  particular.  The  three  first  books  I  have  already 
ieapatched,  and  am  now  entering  upon  the  fourth.  I  need 
lot  acquaint  my  reader,  that  there  are  multitudes  of  beauties 
n  this  great  author,  especially  in  the  descriptive  part  of  hie 
poem,  which  I  have  not  touiihed  upon  ;  it  being  my  intention 
Bo  point  out  those  only  which  appear  to  me  the  most  exqui- 
■ita,  or  those  which  are  not  so  obvious  to  ordinary  readers. 
Bmy  ciue  that  has  read  the  critics  who  have  written  upon  the 
Odyssey,  the  Diad,  and  the  .^ineid,  knows  very  well,  tliat 
though  they  agree  in  their  opinions  of  the  great  beauties  in 
'hose  poems,  they  have  nevertheless  each  of  them  discovered 
Bveral  master-strokes,  which  have  escaped  the  observation  of 
'.thereat.  In  the  same  manner,  I  question  not  but  any  writer, 
*  who  shall  treat  on  this  subject  alter  me,  may  finti  several 

H  in   ■ 

224  addison'b  wobes. 

beauties  in  Milton,  which  I  have  iiot  taken  notice  of,  I 
likewise  observe,  that  as  the  greatest  masters  of  critical  leaia* 
ing  diifer  among  one  another,  as  to  some  particular  points  in 
an  epic  poem,  I  have  not  liound  myself  serupuloualy  to  the 
pulea  which  any  one  of  them  has  laid  down  upon  that  art,  hut 
have  taken  the  liberty  sometimes  to  join  with  one,  and  Bome- 
times  with  another,  and  sometimes  to  differ  from  all  of  them, 
when  I  have  thought  that  the  reason  of  the  thing  was  on  my 

We  may  consider  the  beauties  of  the  fourth  book  under 
three  heads.  In  the  first  are  those  pictures  of  still-life,  which 
we  meet  with  in  the  deacriptiona  of  Eden,  Paradise,  Adam's 
bower,  ic.  In  the  neit  are  the  machines,  which  comprehend 
the  speeches  and  behaviour  of  the  good  and  bad  angels.  In 
the  last  ia  the  conduct  of  Adam  and  Ere,  who  are  the  prin- 
cipal actors  in  the  poem. 

In  the  description  of  Paradise,  the  poet  has  observed  Aris- 
totle's rule  of  lavishing  all  the  omamenta  of  diction  on  the 
weak  unactive  parts  of  the  fable,  which  are  not  supported  by 
the  beauty  of  aentiments  and  characters.  Accordingly  the 
reader  may  observe,  that  the  expressions  are  more  florid  and 
elaborate  in  these  descriptions  than  in  most  other  parts  of 
the  poem.  I  must  further  add,  that  though  the  drawings  of 
gardens,  rivers,  rainbows,  and  the  like  dead  pieces  of  nature, 
are  justly  censured  in  an  heroic  poem,  when  tney  run  out  into 
an  unnecessary  length ;  the  description  of  Paradise  would 
have  been  faulty,  had  not  the  poet  been  very  particular  in  it, 
not  only  aa  it  ia  the  scene  of  the  principal  action,  hut  aa  it  is 
requisite  to  give  us  an  idea  of  that  happiness  from  which  our 
first  parents  fell.  The  plan  of  it  ia  wonderiuliy  beautiful, 
and  lormed  upon  the  short  sketch  which  we  have  of  it  in 
holy  writ.  Milton's  eiubcranee  of  imagination  has  poured 
forth  such  a  redundancy  of  ornaments  on  this  seat  of  happi- 
ness and  innocence,  that  it  would  be  endless  to  point  out 
each  particular, 

I  must  not  quit  this  head  without  further  observing,  that 
there  is  scarce  a  speech  of  Adam  or  Eve  in  the  whole  poem, 
wherein  the  sentiments  aad  allusions  are  not  taken  from  this 
theu-  delightful  habitation.  The  reader,  during  their  whole 
course  of  action,  always  finda  himaelf  in  the  walka  of  Paradise, 
In  short,  aa  the  critics  have  remarked,  that  in  those  poems 
wherein  shepherds  are  actors,  the  thoughts  ought  always  to 


take  a  tincture  fiwm  the  woods,  flelda,  and  rirera  ;  bo  we  may 
obaerve,  that  o\ir  first  parents  seldom  lose  sight  of  their  happy 
Jjrtation  in  anything  they  speak  or  do ;  and  if  the  reader  will 
give  me  leave  to  use  the  expression,  that  their  thoughts  are 
always  paradisiacal. 

We  are  in  the  neit  place  to  consider  the  machines  of  the 
fonrth  hook.  Satan  heme  now  within  prospect  of  Eden,  aad 
looking  round  upon  the  ^ories  of  the  creation,  is  filled  with 
Bentiments  different  from  those  which  he  discovered  whilst  he 
was  in  hell.  The  place  inspires  him  with  thoughts  more 
adapted  to  it:  he  reflects  upon  the  happy  condition  from 
whence  he  fell,  and  breaks  forth  into  a  speech  that  is  softened 
with  several  transient  touches  of  remorse  and  self-accusation; 
but  at  length,  he  confirms  himself  in  impenitence,  and  in  his 
design  of  dran-ing  men  into  his  own  state  of  guUt  and  misery. 
This  conflict  of  passions  is  raised  with  a  great  deal  of  art,  as 
the  opening  of  his  speech  to  the  sun  is  very  hold  aud  nobla 

O  thou  that,  with  aurpasaing  glory  crowned, 
Look'st  liDm  thy  sole  dommion  like  the  God 
Of  this  new  wDdd,  at  whose  eight  all  the  Btais 
Hide  their  diminished  heads  ;  to  thee  I  call, 
But  with  no  friendly  voice,  and  odd  Ihy  name, 

0  Sun,  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beama, 
That  bring  to  my  rcimpmhrnnce  from  what  slate 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once  above  thy  sphere. 

This  Speech  is,  I  think,  the  finest  that  is  ascribed  to  Satan 
in  the  whole  poem.     The  evil  spirit  afterwards  proceeds  to 
make  his  discoveries-  concenung  our  first  parents,  and  to 
Jeam  after  what  maimer  they  may  be  best  attacked.     His 
Dunding  over  the  walls  of  Paradise  ;  his  sitting  in  the  shape 
jf  a  cormorant  upon  the  tree  of  life,  which  atood  in  the  centre 
'£  it,  and  over-topped  all  the  other  trees  of  the  garden ;  his 
lighting  among  the  herd  of  animals,  which  are  so  beautifully 
presented  as  playing  about  Adam  and  Eve ;  together  with 
-,  transforming  himself  into  different  shapes,  in  order  to  bear 
'  conversation  ;  are  circum  stances  that  give  an  agreeable 
_^  rise  to  the  reader,  and  are  devised  with  great  art,  to 
connect  that  series  of  adventures  in  which  the  poet  has  en- 
gaged this  great  artificer  of  fraud. 

The  thought  of  Satan's  transformation  into  a  cormorant, 
and  placing  himself  on  the  tree  of  life,  seems  raised  upon 

that  passage  in  tlie  Diad,  wbere  two  deities  are  deacriljed 
perching  on  the  tap  of  an  oak  in  tlic  shape  of  Tultures. 

His  phinting  liimself  at  the  ear  of  Eve  under  the  form  of 
K  toad,  in  order  to  produce  vain  dreams  and  imaginations,  ia 
a  ciivumstauce  of  the  same  nature :  tta  hia  starting  up  in 
his  own  form  ta  wonderfully  fine,  both  in  the  literal  descrii 
tion,  and  in  the  moral  which  is  concealed  under  it. 
answer  upon  his  being  diacorered,  and  demanded  to  give 
account  of  himaeli',  is  conibrmable  to  the  pride  and  intrepil 
ity  of  his  character. 

Know  ye  not  tiien,  said  Sntan,  filled  with 

Knair  ye  nol  me  ?  Se  knew  me  once  no  n 

For  you,  there  sitting  where  you  darat  nol 

Nat  to  know  oie  argues  yourselves  unkno' 

The  lowest  of  your  throng  i^ 

Zephon's  rebuke,  with  the  influence  it  had  on  Satan, 
esquisitely  graceful  and  moral.  Satan  is  afterwards 
to  Gobriej,  the  chief  of  the  guardian  angels,  who  kept  watcl 
in  Paradiae.  Hia  diBdainfulhehaviour  on  this  occasion  is  si 
remarkable  a  beauty,  that  the  moat  ordinary  reader  cannot 
but  take  notice  of  it.  Gabriel's  discovering  his  approach  at 
a  distance,  is  drawn  with  great  strength  and  liveliness  of. 

O  friends,  I  hear  ihe  tread  of  nimble  feel 
Hastening  this  way,  and  now  by  glimpse  discejn 
Ithuriel  and  Zephon  throng  tlie  shadei 
And  with  them  comes  a  third,  of  regal  port. 
But  faded  splendour  wan ;  who  by  ilia  gait 
And  fierce  domoanour,  Bcems  the  prince  of  hell. 
Not  likely  to  part  hence  wilhout  contest; 
Stand  firm,  for  in  his  look  defiance  lours. 

The  conference  between  Gabriel  and  Satan  abounds  witftj 
sentimcnta  proper  for  the  occasion,  and  suitable  to  the  pel  ' 
eons  of  the  two  speakers.  Satan'a  clothing  himself  with  ter- 
ror, when  he  prepares  for  the  combat,  is  truly  sublime,  and 
at  least  equal  to  ilomer's  description  of  Discord  celebrated 
by  LonginuB ;  or  to  that  of  Fame  in  Virgil ;  who  are  both 
rspresented  with  their  feet  standing  upon  the  earth, 
their  heads  reaching  above  the  clouds. 




While  thus  he  spake,  the  angelic 
Turned  fiery  red,  sharpening  in  i 
Their  phalanx,  and  begau  to  ben 
With  pointed  spears,  &e. 

squadron  bright 
louucd  homa 
him  round 

STO.  ai.  THE    aPBCTATOB.  227 

—On  tile  olhor  aide,  Satan,  Hlanned, 
Collet  ting  all  his  miglit,  dilaled  atooil, 
Like  Tenariffo,  or  Atlas,  unremoved. 
His  Btature  readied  the  sky;  and  on  bis  crest 
Sat  horror  plumed. — 

I  must  here  take  notice,  that  Milton  ia  everywhere  full  of 
faints,  and  aometimea  literal  tranelations,  taken  fi-om  the 
greatest  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets.  But  thia  I  may  re- 
serve for  a  diacourse  by  itself,  because  I  would  not  break  tha 
thread  of  these  speculations,  that  are  designed  for  English 
I,  with  such  reflections  as  would  be  of  no  use  but  to 
ike  learned. 

I  must,  however,  obaerre  in  this  place,  that  the  breaking 
off  the  combat  between  Glabriel  and  Satan,  by  the  hanging 
ont  of  the  golden  scales  in  heaven,  ia  a  refinement  upon 
Bomer'a  thought,  who  tella  us,  that  before  the  battle  ne- 
itween  Hector  and  Achilles,  Jupiter  weighed  the  event  of  it 
■in  a  pair  of  acales.  The  reader  may  see  the  whole  passage 
'a  the  22nd  Iliad. 

Virgil,  before  the  IfliSt  decisive  combat,  describes  Jupiter 
in  the  same  manner,  as  weighing  the  fates  of  Tumua  and 
Milton,  though  he  fetched  this  beautiful  circum- 
atance  &om  the  Iliad  and  j^neid,  does  not  only  insert  it  as 
s  poetical  emhelliahment,  like  the  authors  above-mentioned, 
but  makes  nil  artful  use  of  it  for  the  proper  carrying  on  of 
his  feble,  and  for  the  breaking  off  the  combat  between  the 
tVTO  warriors,  who  were  upon  the  point  of  engaging.  To 
this  we  may  further  add,  that  Milton  is  the  more  justified 
ia  this  passage,  as  we  find  the  same  noble  allegory  in  holy 
writ,  where  a  wicked  prince,  some  few  houra  before  he  was 
assaulted  and  alnin,  ia  aoid  to  have  been  "  weiglied  in  the 
leales,  and  to  have  been  found  wanting." 

I  mxuit  here  take  notice,  imder  the  head  of  tbe  machines, 
tliat  Uriel's  gliding  down  to  the  earth  upon  a  sun-beam, 
Itrith  the  poet'a  device  to  make  him  descend,  as  well  in  hta 
return  to  the  sim,  aa  in  his  coming  from  it,  ia  a  prettinosa 
lat  might  have  been  admired  in  a  little  fanciful  poet,  but 
sems  below  the  genius  of  Milton.  The  description  of  the 
■  if  armed  angela  walking  their  nightly  round  in  Para- 
B  of  another  spirit ; 

m  he  ltd  his  radiajil  files. 

&3  that  account  of  the  hymnB,  which  our  first  parentB  ii 
to  hear  them  eing  in  these  their  midnight  walis,  i 
ther  divine,  and  inexpressihly  amiisiBg  to  the  imaginatio: 

"We  are,  in  the  last  place,  to  consider  the  parte  which 
Adam  and  Eve  act  in  the  fourth  hook.     The  deacription  of 
them  as  they  first  appeared  to  Satan,  ie  exquisitely  draw 
and  eufficient  to  make  the  fallen  angel  gaze  upon  them  w]" 
all  that  astonishment,  and  those  emotions  of  envy,  in  whi 
he  is  repi 

Two  of  fur  nobler  shape,  erect  and  lall, 

God-like  erect,  with  native  honour  olad. 

In  naked  majesty  seemed  lords  of  all ; 

And  worthy  seemed,  for  in  their  looks  dirine 

The  image  of  theii  glorious  Maker  shone, 

Truth,  wisdom,  SBnrtitude.  severe  and  pure ; 

Severe,  but  in  true  filial  fteedotti  placed ; 

For  contemplation  he  and  vdour  fura.e'j  ; 

For  softness  she,  and  sweet  attractive  p-iicc ; 

He  for  God  only,  she  ftir  God  in  him  : 

His  fair  large  front,  and  eye  aubhrae,  declared 

Absolnto  nils  ;  and  hyacinthinc  locks 

Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hun^ 

Clustering,  but  not  beneath  Ms  ahonlders  broad ,' 

She  OS  a  veil  down  to  her  slender  waist 

Her  unadorned  golden  treases  wore 

Disheveled,  but  in  wanton  ringlels  waved. 

So  passed  they  naked  on,  nor  shunned  Iha  aight 

Of  God  or  sngels,  for  they  thought  no  ill : 

So  hand  in  hand  they  passed,  the  loveliest  pair 

That  ever  since  in  love's  embraces  met. 
There  is  a  fine  epirit  of  poetry  in  the  lines  which  folloi 
wherein  they  are  aescribed  as  sitting  on  a  hcd  of  flowers  b^ 
the  side  of  a  fountain,  amidst  a  mixed  asaemhly  of  animals. ' 
The  speeches  of  theae  two  firat  lovers  flow  equally  from 
passion  and  sincerity.     The  professions  they  make  to  one 
another  are  full  of  warmth,  but  at  the  same  time  founded 
on  truth.    In  a  word,  they  arc  the  gallantries  of  Paradise. 
— When  Adam,  first  of  men — 

Sole  partner  and  sole  part  of  ait  these  joys, 

Dearer  thyself  than  all ; — 

But  let  us  ever  praise  Him,  and  extol 

His  bounty,  following  our  delightful  task, 

To  prune  those  growing  plants,  and  lend  these  ilower*, 

Which  were  it  toilsame,  yet  with  thee  wore  sweel. 

To  whom  thus  Eve  replied  :  0  thou  for  whom 

And  &oin  whom  1  was  formed,  flesh  of  thy  desh. 

And  without  whom  am  to  no  end,  my  (uide 


And  head,  what  (hou  hast  said  la  just  ajid  riglit ; 
For  we  to  him  indeed  all  praises  owe 
And  daily  thanks :  I  chiefly,  who  enjoy 
So  far  the  happier  lot,  enjoying  thee 
Pre-eminent  by  sb  much  odds,  while  thou 
Like  consort  to  thyself  canst  nowhere  find,  &c. 

Thti  remaining  part  of  Eve's  speech,  in  which  she  girea 
aa  accoTint  of  herself  upon  her  first  creation,  and  the  manner 
in  which  she  was  brought  to  Adam,  is  I  think  as  beautiful  a 
passage  as  any  in  Milton,  or  perhaps  in  any  other  poet  what- 
soever. These  passages  are  all  worked  off  with  so  much  art, 
that  they  ai%  capable  of  pleasing  the  most  delicate  reader, 
without  offending  the  moat  severe. 

That  day  1  ot^  remember,  when  from  sleep,  &c. 

A  poet  of  leas  judgment;  and  invention  than  this  great 
author,  would  have  found  it  very  difficvilt  to  have  filled  theee 
tender  parts  of  the  poem  with  sentimeuta  proper  for  a  atate 
of  innocence ;  to  have  described  the  warmto  of  love,  and 
the  profeasiona  of  it,  without  artifice  or  hyperbole;  to  have 
made  the  man  apeak  the  most  endearing  things,  without 
descending  from  riia  natural  dignity,  and  the  woman  receiv- 
ing them  without  departing  from  the  modesty  of  her  charac- 
ter;  in  a  word,  to  adjust  the  prerogatives  of  wisdom  and 
beauty,  and  make  each  appear  to  the  other  in  its  proper 
force  Kai  loveliness.  This  mutual  Bubordination  of  the  two 
seses  ia  wonderfully  kept  up  in  the  whole  poem,  as  particu- 
larly in  the  speech  of  Eve  I  nave  before  mentioned,  and  upon 
the  concliiaion  of  it  in  the  following  lines. 

So  apako  our  general  mother,  and  with  eyas 
Of  conjugal  attraction  nnreproved, 
And  meek  auirender.  half  embracing  leaned 
On  OUT  first  father ;  linlf  her  swelling  breast 
Naked  met  Ms  nnder  the  Sowing  gold 
Of  her  loosetreeses  bid;  be.  in  delight 
Both  of  her  beanty  and  submissive  charms. 
Smiled  with  superior  love. — 

The  poet  adds,  that  the  devil  turned  away  with  envy  at 
the  sight  of  so  much  happiness. 

We  have  another  view  of  our  first  parents  in  their  evening 
diBCOursea,  which  is  full  of  pleasing  images  and  sentimenti 
Buitable  to  their  condition  and  chaiactera.  The  apeech  ' 
Eve,  in  particular,  is  dressed  up  in  such  a  soft  and  natn 


t\]ni  of  words  and  sentimenta,  as  cannot  I 

I  bIibU  close  my  reflectionB  upon  this  book,  which  obso 
the  masterly  transition  which  the  poet  makes  to  their  evei 
ing  worship,  in  the  following  lines. 

Thus  at  iheir  shady  lodge  arrived.,  buth  stood, 
Both  tamed,  and  under  open  sky  adored 
The  God  that  made  both  sky,  aii,  earth,  and  heaTon, 
Which  ihey  beheld,  Ihe  moon's  resplendent  globe, 
And  starry  pole :  thou  also  mad'st  the  iiigbt. 
Maker  omnipotent,  and  t^u  the  day,  &c. 

Moat  of  the  modem  heroic  poeta  have  imitated  the 
cients,  in  beginning  a  speech  without  premising  that 
persoa  said  thua  or  thus ;  but  as  it  is  easy  to  imitate  the 
cients  in  the  omiasion  of  two  or  three  words,  it  requiree 
judgment  to  do  it  in  such  o  manner  as  they  shali  not  be 
missed,  and  that  the  speech  may  begin  naturally  without 
them.     There  is  a  fine  instance  of  thia  kind  out  of  Homer, 
in  the  twenty-third  chapter  of  LonginnB. 


— Major  remm  mihi  naacitur  nrdo.     ViHC. 

"We  were  told  in  the  foregoing  book,  liow  the  evil  spirit 
practised  upon  Eve  aa  ahe  lay  aaleep,  in  order  to  inspire  her 
with  thoughts  of  vanity,  pride,  and  ambition.     The  author, 
who  shows  a  wonderful  art  throughout  his  whole  poem, 
in  preparing  the  reader  for  the  several  occurrences  that  arise 
ia  it,  founds  upon  the  above-mentioned  circumstance  the 
first  part  of  the  fifth  book.     Adam,  upon  his  awaking,  finds 
Eve  stfil  aaleep,  with  an  unusual  discomposure  in  her  looks. 
The  posture  ui  which  he  regards  her,  ia  deacribed  witk 
tenderne3B  not  to  be  expressed,  as  a  whisper  with  which 
awakens  her,  is  the  softest  that  ever  was  conveyed  ta 
loyer's  ear. 

HiB  wonder  was  to  find  unwakened  Eve 
With,  tresaos  discomposed  and  glowing  cheek, 
Aa  through  unquiet  rest :  be  on  his  side 
Leaning  half-raised,  with  looks  of  cordial  Ion, 
Hong  over  her  enamoured,  and  beheld 
Beauty,  which,  wlielher  waking  or  aaleep. 



Shot  forth  peculiar  graces ;  then  with  ■voice 
Mild  as  when  Zephytus  on  Flora  breathea, 
Her  hand  soft  toudung,  whispered  thus ;  Awake 
My  fttiresl,  ray  eapousal,  my  lateat  found, 
Heavea'B  last  best  gift,  my  erer  new  delight ! 
Awake  :  the  morning  ehines,  and  the  fie^  Held 
Calla  us  ;  we  lose  the  ptime,  lo  mark  how  spiijlg 
Our  tendjed  plants,  how  blows  tlie  cition  grove, 
What  drops  Ihe  myrrh,  and  what  the  balmy  reed, 
How  Nature  pnints  her  colours,  how  the  bee 
Sits  on  Ihe  bloora,  eilructing  liquid  sweet. 
Such  whispering  waked  her,  but  with  startled  eye 
On  Adam,  whom  erohracing,  thus  she  spake. 

O  sole  in  whom  my  thoi^hts  find  all  repose, 
My  glory,  my  porfeclion,  glud  I  see 
Thy  face  and  mom  relunied— 

I  cannot  Ijut  taie  notice  that  Milton,  in  the  conference 
berween  Adam  and  Eve,  had  his  eye  very  frequently  upon 
ihe  book  of  Canticles,  in  which  there  is  a  nohle  spirit  of 
Eaatcm  poetry ;  and  very  often  not  imlike  what  we  meet 
with  in  Homer,  who  is  ^nerally  placed  near  the  age  of 
Solomon.  I  think  there  ia  no  question  hut  the  poet,  in  the 
preceding  speech,  remembered  those  two  paesagee  which  are 
spoken  on  the  like  occasion,  and  tilled  with  the  same  pleasing 
images  of  nature. 

"  My  beloved  spake,  and  said  unto  me.  Rise  up,  my  love, 
my  fair  one,  and  come  away ;  for  lo,  the  winter  is  past,  the 
ram  is  over  and  gone  ;  the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth  ;  the 
time  of  the  singing  of  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the 
turtle  is  heard  in  our  land.  The  fig-tree  put-teth  forth  her 
green  figa,  and  the  vines  with  the  tender  grape  give  a  good 
smell.     Arise,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away. 

"  Come,  my  beloved,  let  us  go  forth  into  the  field ;  let  us 
get  up  early  to  the  vineyards,  let  us  see  if  the  vine  flourish, 
whether  the  tender  grape  appear,  uid  the  pomegntnates  bud 

HJa  preferring  the  garden  of  Eden  to  that 
— where  Ihe  sapient  king 
Held  dalliance  with  his  fair  Egyptian  spouse, 
shows  that  the  poet  had  this  delightful  scene  in  hJs  mind. 

Eve's  dream  is  full  of  those  "  high  conceits  engendering 
pride,"  which,  we  are  told,  the  denl  endeavoured  to  instfl 
into  her.  Of  this  kind  is  that  part  of  it  where  she  fanciea 
herself  awakened  by  &  dam  in  the  following  beautiful  lines. 

Why  &lEep'st  Ihoii,  Kve  'I  nov  ia  the  pleasuit  tim^ 

The  cool,  iho  ailenl,  save  where  Hilonco  yield* 

To  Ihe  night -wurbling  bird,  that  now  awake 

Tunes  sweetest  his  love-Iabonred  song ;  now  reigna 

Full-orbed  the  moon,  and  with  more  pleasing  U^t 

Shadowy  set>  off  the  face  of  things ;  in  vain. 

If  none  regard.    Heaven  wakes  with  all  his  eyes, 

Whom  to  behold  but  thee,  Nature's  desire. 

In  whose  sight  all  things  joy,  with  ravishment. 

Attracted  by  thy  beauty  still  to  gaze ! 
An  injudicious  poet  would  have  made  Adam  tali  thrcugl 
the  whole  work  id  such  sentiments  as  these :  but  flal ' 
and  falsehood  are  not  the  courtship  of  Milton's  Adam, 
could  not  be  heard  by  Eve  in  her  state  of  innocence,  except 
ing  only  in  a  dream  produced  on  purpose  to  taint 
imagination.  Other  vain  sentiments  of  the  same  kind  in  thii 
relation  of  her  dream,  will  be  obvious  to  every  reader. 
Though  the  catastrophe  of  the  poem  is  finely  presaged  on  this 
occasion,  the  particiilara  of  it  are  so  artfully  shadowed,  that 
they  do  not  anticipate  the  story  which  follows  in  the  ninth 
hook.  I  shall  only  add,  that  though  the  viaion  of  itself  is 
founded  upon  truth,  the  circumstances  of  it  are  full  of  that 
wildness  and  inconsistency  which  are  natural  to  a  dream. 
Adam,  conformable  to  his  superior  character  for  wisdom, 
structa  and  comforts  Eve  upon  this  occasion. 

So  cheered  he  his  fair  sponae,  and  she  was  cheered, 

But  silently  a  gentle  tear  let  fall 

From  either  eye,  and  wiped  them  with  her  hair ; 

Two  other  predous  drops,  that  ready  stood, 

Each  in  their  crystal  sluice,  he  ere  lAey  fell 

Kissed,  as  the  gracious  signs  of  sweet  remorse 

And  pious  awe.  that  feared  to  have  otfended. 
The  morning  hymn  ia  written  in  imitation  of 
psalms  where,  in  tne  overflowings  of  gratitude  and  praise,  the 
psalmist  calls  not  only  upon  the  angels,  hut  upon  the  most 
conspicuous  parts  of  the  inanimate  creation,  to  join  with  him 
in  extolling  their  common  Maker.  Invocations  of  this  nature 
fill  the  mind  with  glorious  ideas  of  God's  works,  and  awaken 
that  divine  enthusiasm,  which  is  so  natural  to  devotion.  But 
if  this  calling  upon  the  dead  parts  of  nature  is  at  all  times  a 
proper  kind  of  wosrship,  it  was  in  a  manner  suit- 
able to  our  firet  parejita,  who  had  the  creation  fresh  upon 
their  minds,  acd  had  not  seen  the  various  diapensations  at 
Providence,  nor  consequently  could  be  acquunted  with  thooe 



f  those 

many  topics  of  praiae  wliich  might  afford  matter  to  the  devo- 
tiona  of  their  poateiity,  I  need  not  remark  the  beautiful 
spirit  of  poetry  which  rima  thivugh  this  whole  hymn,  nor 
the  hoIiusHa  of  that  resolution  with  which  it  concludes. 

Having  already  mentioned  those  epeeches  which  are  aa- 
Bigned  to  the  persons  in  this  poem,  I  proceed  to  the  descrip- 
tion which  the  poet  gives  of  Kaphael.  His  departure  &om 
before  the  throne,  ajid  his  Slight  through  the  choirs  of  angels, 
ia  finely  imaged.  As  Milton  everywhere  .fills  his  poem  with 
circumstances  that  are  marvellous  and  astonishing,  he  de- 
Bcribes  the  gate  of  heaven  aa  framed  after  auch  a  manner, 
that  it  opened  of  itself  upon  the  approach  of  the  angel  who 
was  to  pass  through  it. 

—Till  at  Ihc  gate 
Of  heaven  anivEd,  tho  gale  Hfilf-opened  iride. 
On  golden  hinges  fuming,  hb  by  work 
Divine  the  Boveieign  aichitect  had  framed. 

The  poet  here  seems  to  have  regarded  two  or  three  paa- 
__ge8  in  the  18th  Iliad,  as  that  in  particidar,  where,  speaking 
of  Vulcan,  Homer  saya,  that  he  had  made  twenty  tripoda, 
tTLuning  on  golden  wheels  ;  which,  upon  occasion,  might  go 
of  themselves  to  the  aasemhly  of  the  gods,  and,  when  there 
no  more  use  for  them,  return  again  after  the  same  man- 

Scaliger  has  rallied  Homer  very  severely  upon  this 

point,  as  M.  Hacier  has  endeavoured  to  defend  it.  Iwillnot 
pretend  to  determine,  whether  in  thia  particular  of  Homer 
the  marveDous  does  not  lose  sight  of  the  probable.  As  the 
miraculous  workmanship  of  Milton's  gates  is  not  so  extra- 
ordinary as  this  of  the  iripodes,  so  I  am  persuaded  he  would 
not  have  mentioned  it,  had  not  he  been  supported  in  it  by 
fi  passage  in  the  Scripture,  which  speaks  of  wheela  in  heaven 
tbat  had  life  in  them,  and  moved  of  themselves,  or  stood 
atin,  in  conformity  with  the  chembima,  whom  they  accom- 

There  ia  no  question  but  Milton  had  this  circumstance  in 
his  thoughts,  because  in  the  foDowing  book  be  describes  the 
chariot  of  the  Messiah  with  living  wheels,  according  to  tha 
plan  in  Enekiel'a  vision. 

— FortJi  rushed  wifi  wMrlwmd  sound 
The  charint  of  paternal  Deity, 
Flashing  thick  flamoa,  wheel  within  wheel  undrawn. 
Itself  inatinct  with  spirit — 

I  queRtion  not  but  Bosau,  and  the  two  Daciera,  who  a 
for  vindicating  eycrything  that  is  censured  in  Homer  I 
something  pamllel  in  holy*writ,  would  have  been  v 
pleased  had  they  thought  of  confronting  Vulcan's 
with  Ezekiel'a  wheels. 

B  descent  to  the  enrtti.  with  the  figure  of  hi 
i  represented  in  very  lively  colours.     Several  c 
French,  Itidian,  and  English  poets,  have  s 
their  imaginations  in  the  description  of  angda  ;  but  I  do  D 
remember  to  have  met  with  any  so  finely  drawn,  and  so  a 
formablc  to  the  notions  which  are  giTcn  of  thorn  ii 
ture,  aa  this  in  Milton.    After  having  set  him  forth  ii 
heavenly  plumage,  and  represented  Jiim  aa  alighting^  v 
the  earth,  the  poet  concludes  hia  description  with  a  cir 
stance  which  ia  altogether  new  and  imagined  with  the  g 
eat  strength  of  fancy, 

~Like  MBi&'ssDD  he  slood, 
And  shook  bis  plumta,  thai  lieavenly  fragmnce  filled 

_   .,    .  iVa  reception  by  the  guardian  angela, 
through  the  wHdemeas  of  sweets,  his  distant  apjpt 
to  Adam,  have  all  the  graces  that  poetry  ia  capable 
stowing.     The  author  afterwards  gives  ua  a  particulax  i 
acriptioo  of  Eve  in  her  domestic  employments. 

Su  saying,  'with  despatcht'uliooks  in  haale 

She  turns,  ou  hospitable  thoughU  intent. 

What  choice  to  choose  for  delicacy  best, 

Wliat  order  so  contnTed  as  not  to  mix 

Tastes  not  well  joined,  inelegant,  but  bring 

Taste  after  taste,  upheld  with  Jtindlieat  clinnge; 

Bestirs  her  then,  &c. 
Though  in  thia,  and  other  parts  of  the  same  book,  the  sqj 

ject  ia  only  the  housevrifery  of  oiir  Urst  parent,  it  ia  set  fl 

with  BO  many  pleasing  images  and  strong  eipresaions,  as 
make  it  none  of  the  least  agreeable  parts  in  this  divine  work. 
The  natural  majesty  of  Adam,  and  at  the  aamc  time  his 
submissive  behaviour  to  the  superior  being  who  had  vouolb 
safed  to  be  hia  guest ;  the  solemn  hail  which  the  angi '  *  ' 
stowa  upon  the  mother  of  manlrind,  with  the  figure  o 
ministering  at  the  table,  are  circumstances  which  d 
be  admired. 

3  behaviour  ia  every  way  suitable  to  the  d 


of  lus  nature,  and  to  tliat  cbaracter  of  a  sociable  epirit,  ■with 
■which  the  author  has  bo  judiciously  introduced  him.  He 
liad  received  instructions  to  couverae  with  Adam,  as  one 
finend  conferees  with  another,  ajid  to  warn  him  of  the 
.inieniy,  who  was  contriving  hia  destruction :  accordingly  ho 
18  repreeeuted  as  eitting  domi  at  a  table  with  Adam,  and 
mating  of  the  fruita  of  Paradise.  The  occasion  naturally  leads 
lim  to  his  discourse  on  the  food  of  angels.  After  having 
'thus  entered  into  conversation  with  man  upon  more  indiffer- 
pnt  Buhjecta,  he  warns  him  of  hia  obedience,  and  makes  a 
natural  transition  to  the  history  of  that  fallen  angel,  vrho 
WBB  employed  in  the  circumvention  of  our  first  parents. 

Had  I  followed  Monsieur  Bosau'a  method  in  my  firat 
paper  on  Milton,  I  should  have  dated  the  action  of  Paradise 
Lost  from  the  beginning  of  EapLael'B  speech  in  thia  book, 
as  he  supposes  the  action  of  the  .^neid  to  begin  in  the  ae- 
cond  book  of  that  poem.  I  could  allege  many  reasons  for 
my  drawing  the  action  of  the  .Sneid  rather  trom  ita  imme- 
idiate  beginning  in  the  first  hook,  than  from  its  remote  hegin- 
ping  in  the  second ;  and  show  why  I  have  conaidered  the 
tHrCking  of  Troy  as  an  episode,  according  to  the  common 
(KceptatioD  of  that  word.  But  as  this  would  be  a  dry,  unen- 
tertaining  piece  of  criticiara,  and  perhaps  unnecessary  to  thoae 
who  have  read  my  first  paper,  I  shall  not  enlarge  upon  it. 
Whichever  of  the  notions  bo  true,  the  unity  of  Milton's 
action  ia  preserved  according  to  either  of  them  ;  whether  we 
consider  the  fall  of  man  in  ita  immediate  beginning,  aa  pro- 
ceeding from  the  resolutions  taken  in  the  infernal  council,  or 
in  its  more  remote  beginning,  aa  proceeding  from  the  first 
jvolt  of  t!ie  angels  in  heaven.  The  occasion  which  Milton 
isigns  for  thia  revolt,  as  it  is  founded  on  hints  in  holy  writ, 
od  on  the  opinion  of  some  great  writers,  so  it  waa  the  most 
iroper  that  the  poet  could  have  made  use  of. 

The  revolt  in  heaven  is  described  with  great  force  of  ima- 
'uoation,  and  a  fine  variety  of  circumstances.     The  learned 
sader  cannot  hut  he  pleased  with  the  poet's  imitation  of 
r  in  the  last  of  the  following  lines. 
At  length  into  the  limits  af  the  noilh 
Thejr  CBme,  and  Satan  took  bus  TOyol  seat 
High  en  a  hill,  lai  hliizing,  aa  a  mount 
Bused  on  a,  mount,  with  pyramids  and  towen 
m  diamond  qnarries  hewn,  and  rouka  of  goU 
paJace  of  gieal  Lucifer,  {bo  call 


HomfT  mentians  persons  and  things,  vliich,  lie  tells  ua,  iir 
'the  language  of  the  gods  are  called  by  different  names  from 
those  they  go  by  in  the  Inngunge  of  men.  Milton  Laa  imi- 
tated him  with  bia  usual  judgment  in  this  particular  place, 
wherein  he  haa  likewise  the  authority  of  Scnpture  to  justi^ 
him.  The  part  of  Abdiel.  who  was  the  only  spirit  that  in 
this  infinite  host  of  angels  preserved  his  alleguinoe  to  his 
Maker,  exhibits  to  us  a  noble  moral  of  religious  singularity. 
The  zeal  of  the  seraph  breaks  forth  in  a  becoming  warmth  of 
aentimenta  and  esproasiona,  as  the  character  which  is  given 
us  of  him  denotes  that  generous  scorn  and  intrepidity  which 
attends  heroic  virtue.  The  author  doubtless  desigDed  it  aa  a 
pattern  to  those  who  live  among  mankind  in  their  present 
state  of  degeneracy  and  corruption. 

So  spake  the  seraph  Abdiel,  faitMiil  raimd ; 

Among  the  ftiithleaa,  faithful  anly  he; 

Among  innumeiable  false,  unmoTed, 

Unshaken,  unaeduced,  unterrified; 

Hia  loyally  he  kept,  his  lOTe,  hia  leal : 

Noi  numher,  not  example,  with  him  wrought 

To  swerve  from  truth,  or  change  ids  CDnalant  mind. 

Though  single.    From  amidst  them  forth  he  passed. 

Long  way  through  hostile  scorn,  which  he  suiitamed 

Superior,  nor  of  violence  feared  aught ; 

And  with  retorted  scorn  his  back  he  turned 

On  those  pioud  towers  to  awiiV  desCruclion  doomed. 

No.  333.     SATXJSDAT,  MAJBCH  22. 

"Wb  me  now  entering  upon  the  sisth  book  of  FaraditmB 
Lost,  in  which  the  poet  describes  the  battle  of  angels ;  having 
raiaed  his  reader's  expectation,  and  prepared  him  for  it  by 
several  passages  in  the  preceding  books.  I  omitted  quoting 
these  passages  in  my  observations  on  the  former  books,  hav* 
ing  purposely  reserved  them  for  the  opening  of  this,  the  sub- 
ject of  which  gave  occasion  to  them.  The  author's  im*. 
gination  was  so  inflamed  with  this  scene  of  actioi^  that 
wherever  he  speaks  of  it,  he  rises,  if  possible,  above  himself 
ThuHwhei'e  he  mentiona  Satan  in  the  Deginning  of  hia  poeia: 


— Him  Die  Almighty  Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  Ih'  ethereal  akj, 
Wilh  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition,  there  to  dwell 
In  adujuiuitine  chain  a  and  penal  Are, 
Who  duTBt  defy  th'  Omnipolent  to  aims. 

0  prince,  O  cluef  of  many  throned  poivers, 
That  led  th"  ambatUEd  Bernphim  to  nar, 
Too  well  I  sea  and  rue  the  dire  event. 
That  with  sad  ovarthrow,  and  foul  defeat. 
Hath  lost  lis  heaven,  and  all  thia  mighty  host 
In  horiible  destruction  laid  thus  low. 

But  sec  the  angry  Victor  ha.';  recalled 

Hts  miniaters  of  vengeance  and  pitr.snit 

Back  to  the  gates  of  heaven  :  the  sulphuroua  hail 

Shot  aRcr  ua  in  alorm,  o'erblown,  bath  laid 

The  fiery  surge  that  from  the  precipice 

Of  heaven  received  us  falling ;  and  Iho  thunder, 

Winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage, 

Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases  now 

To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundleas  deep. 

There  are  several  other  very  suhlime  images  on  the  same 
subject  in  the  first  book,  as  also  in  the  Becond. 

What  when  we  fled  amain,  pursued,  and  struck 
With  heaven's  afflicting  thunder,  and  besought 
The  deep  to  shelter  us  ;  tliis  hell  then  seemed 
A  refuge  from  those  wounds — 

In  flhort,  the  poet  never  mentiona  anything  of  this  battle, 
Imt  in  anch  images  of  greatness  and  terror  as  are  suitable  to 
''he  subject.  Among  several  others,  I  cannot  forbear  quoting 
;hat  passage,  where  the  power  who  is  described  as  presiding 
the  Chaos,  speaks  in  the  third  book. 

Tiins  Satan ;  and  him  thus  the  anarch  old, 

With  fanllering  speech,  and  visago  incompoaed, 

Answered :  I  know  thee,  stranger,  who  thou  art, 

That  mighty  leading  angel,  who  of  late 

Made  head  against  heaven's  King,  though  OTCrlhrawn. 

1  saw  and  heard ;  for  such  a  numerous  host 
Fled  not  in  silence  through  tlie  frighted  deep, 
Wilh  ruin  upon  ruin,  lout  on  rout. 
Confusion  worse  confounded;  and  heaven's  gatM 

fc.Ponred  out  by  millions  her  victoriotu  bands, 


i1   WORKS. 


It  wquinid  great  pregnar^  of  invention,  aJid  strength 
imnginatioii,  to  fill  this  battle  with  such  cireumatanceB 
ehould  raise  and  aatomah  the  mind  of  the  reader;  and  at  the 
aame  time  an  exactness  of  judgment,  to  avoid  everything 
that  might  appear  light  or  trivial.     Those  who  loot  into 
Homer,  are  surprised  to  find  his  battles  still  rising  one  ahoi 
another,  and  improving  in  horror,  to  the  concluaioa  o 
Ihad.     Milton's  fight  of  angels  ia  wrought  up  with  the 
beauty.     It  is  ushered  in  ivith  such  signs  of  wrath,  as 
suitable  to  Omnipotence  incensed.     The  first  engagement 
carried  on  under  a  cope  of  fire,  occasioned  by  the  flights  of 
innumerable  burning  darts  and  arrows  which  are  discharged 
from  either  host.    The  second  onset  ia  still  more  terrible,  ea 
it  is  filled  with  those  artificial  thunders  which  seem' to  make' 
the  victory  doubtful,  and  produce  a  kind  of  consteniatil 
even  in  the  good  angels.     Tbia  is  followed  by  the  tearing 
of  mountains  and  promontories ;  till,  in  the  last  place,  tl 
Messiah  cornea  forth  In  the  fulness  of  majesty  and  ter 
The  pomp  of  his  appearance,  amidst  the  roarings  of 
thunders,  the  flashes  of  his  lightnings,  and  the  noise  of 
chariot- wheels,  ia  described  with  the  utmost  flights  of  hi 

There  is  nothing  in  the  first  and  last  day' 
which  does  not  appear  natural,  and  agreeable  enough  to 
ideas  moat  readera  would  conceive  of  a  fight  between 
armies  of  angels. 

The  second  day's  engagement  is  apt  to  startle 
tion,  which  has  not  been  raised  and  qualified  for  such 
acription,  by  the  reading  of  the  ancient  poets,  and  of  Hoi 
in  particular.  It  was  certainly  a  very  Bold  thought  ii 
author,  to  ascribe  the  first  use  of  artillery  to  the  rebel- 
But  as  auch  a  pemicioua  invention  may  be  well  suppi 
have  proceeded  from  such  authors,  ao  it  entered  very  pi 
perly  into  the  thoughts  of  that  being  who  ia  all  along 
Bcribed  as  aspiring  to  the  majeaty  of  his  Maker.  S 
engines  were  the  only  instruments  he  could  have  made 
of  to  imitate  those  thunders,  that  in  all  poetry,  both  aaci 
and  profane,  are  repreaented  as  tlie  arms  of  the  Almighty 
The  tearing  up  of  the  hOls  was  not  altogether  ao  daring  a 
thought  as  the  former.  We  are,  in  some  measure,  prepared 
for  auch  an  incident  by  the  description  of  the  giants  war, 
which  we  meet  with  among  the  ancient  poets.     What  still 

thifl  eiroumstance  tte  more  proper  for  the  poet's  use, 
the  opinion  of  many  loamed  men,  that  the  fable  of  the 
uitB'  WOT,  which  makes  so  great  a  noise  in  antiquity,  and 
ive  birth  to  the  subhmest  description  in  Hesiod'e  workB, 
la  an  allegory  founded  upon  this  very  tradition  of  a  fight 
ttween  the  good  and  had  angels. 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  worth  while  to  coneider  with  what 
idgment  MUton,  in  this  narration,  has  avoided  everything 
iBt  iB  mean  and  trivial  in  the  descriptions  of  the  Latin  and 
^reet  poets ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  improved  every  great 
int  which  ho  met  with  in  their  works  upon  this  aubjeet, 
lomer,  ia  that  passage  which  Longinus  has  celebrated  for 
te  Hublimeness,  and  which  Ovid  and  Virgil  have  copied 
fter  him,  tella  us,  that  the  giants  threw  Onsa  upon  Ofrm- 
us,  and  Pelion  upon  Osaa.  He  adds  an  epithet  to  Peiion 
tlvoai^vWop)  which  very  much  swells  tlie  idea  by  bringing 
p  to  the  reader's  imagination  all  the  woods  that  ^ew  upon 
There  is  further  a  groat  heauty  in  hia  sirj^ling  out  by 
me  these  three  remarkable  mountains,  so  well  known  to 
lie  Greeks.  This  last  is  such  a  beauty  as  the  scene  of  Mil- 
an's war  could  not  possibly  furnish  him  with.  Claudian,  in 
lis  fragment  upon  the  giants'  war,  has  givea  full  scope  to 
*iat  wUdnesB  oi  imagination  which  was  natural  to  him.  He 
ills  us,  that  the  giants  tore  up  whole  islands  by  the  roots, 
nd  threw  them  at  the  gods.  He  describes  one  of  them  in 
larticnlar  taking  up  Leninoa  in  his  arms,  and  whirling  it  lo 
ikies,  with  all  Vulcan's  shop  in  the  midst  of  it.  An- 
'  tears  up  Blount  Ida,  with  the  river  Enipeus,  which 
1  down  the  aides  of  it ;  hut  the  poet,  not  content  to  de- 
ribe  him  with  this  mountain  upon  his  ehouldera,  tella  us 
hat  the  river  flowed  down  his  hack,  as  he  held  it  up  in  that 
loeture.  It  is  visible  to  every  judicious  reader,  that  such 
jeas  savour  more  of  burlesque  than  of  the  sublime.  They 
roceed  from  a  wantonness  of  imagination,  and  rather  divert 
ue  mind  than  astonish  it.  Milton  has  taken  everything  that 
I  sublime  in  these  several  passages,  and  composes  out  of 
'  em  the  following  great  image: 

From  (liD[r  foundations  loosening  to  and  fio, 
They  plucked  the  sealed  hiila  with  all  iheii  load, 
BocJes,  'H'alers,  wooda  ;  and  by  the  shu^y  lops 
Up-lifting  bore  them  in  their  hniida^ 
We  have  the  full  majesty  of  Homer  in  this  short  desf.i 

tion.  improved  by  the  imagination  of  Clandian,  without  i 

I  need  not  point  out  the  deacriptiou  of  the  fallen  angels 
seeing  the  promontories  hanging  over  their  heads  in  such  a 
dreadi'ul  manner,  with  the  other  numherleas  beauties  in  this 
book,  which  are  so  conapicuoue,  that  they  cannot  escape  the 
notice  of  the  most  ordinary  reader. 

There  are,  indeed,  so  many  wonderful  strokes  of  poetry  in 
this  book,  and  auch  a  variety  of  suhlirae  ideas,  that  it  would 
have  been  irapoasible  to  have  eiven  them  a  place  within  the 
bounds  of  thia  paper.  Besides  that,  I  find  it  in  a  great 
measure  done  to  my  hand  at  the  end  of  my  Lord  Eoscom- 
mon's  Eaaay  on  Translated  Poetry.  I  sliull  refer  my  reader 
thither  for  some  of  the  master- atrokos  in  the  sixth  book  of 
Paradise  Lost,  though  at  the  same  time  there  are  many 
others  which  that  noble  author  haa  not  taken  notice  of. 

Milton,  notwithstanding  the  sublime  genius  he  was  master 
of,  has  in  this  book  drawn  to  hia  assistance  all  the  helps 
he  could  meet  with  among  the  ancient  poets.  The  sword 
of  Michael,  which  makes  so  great  a  havoc  among  the  bad 
augels,  was  given  him,  we  are  told,  out  of  the  annoury  of 

— Bui  the  sword 

Of  MichKBl,  from  Ihe  armoury  of  God, 

Wb3  given  him  tempered  bo,  that  neither  keen 

Nor  Bolid  might  resist  that  edge  :  it  met 

The  sword  of  Satan  with  steep  force  La  smite 

Descending,  and  in  half  cut  sheer — 
This  passage  is  a  copy  of  that  in  Virgil,  wherein  the  poet 
tella  us,  that  the  sword  of  jEueas,  which  was  given  him  by  a 
deity,  broke  into  pieces  the  aword  of  Turnua,  which  came  from 
a  mortal  forge.  As  the  moral  in  this  place  is  divine,  so  by 
the  way  we  may  observe,  that  the  bestowing  on  a  man  who 
ia  favoured  by  heaven  aach  an  allegorical  weapon,  is  very 
conformable  to  the  old  Eastern  way  of  thinking.  Not  only 
Homer  has  made  use  of  it,  but  we  find  the  Jewish  hero  in 
the  book  of  Maccabees,  who  had  fought  the  battles  of  the 
chosen  people  with  so  much  glory  and  success,  receiving  in 
his  dream  a  sword  from  the  hand  of  the  prophet  Jeremiah. 
The  following  passage,  wherein  Satan  is  described  as  woiinded 
by  the  sword  of  Michael,  is  in  imitation  of  Homer : 

I  The  griding  sword  witb  dlacontinuous  wound 

Passed  through  him,  but  the  ethereal  HubatEUice  closed, 


Not  lon^  diTiBible,  and  &om  the  gaali 
A  Btream  of  necUrDus  humour  isauing  flowed 
Sanguine,  such  as  celestial  apirita  may  bleed, 
And  all  his  armour  elained — 

Homer  tells  uh  iu  the  same  nianoer,  that  upon  DiomedeH 
wounding  the  gods,  there  flowed  from  the  wouud  an  iehor, 
'"Or  pure  kind  of  hlood,  which  was  not  bred  from  mortal 
nandB ;  and  that  though  the  pain  was  eiquisitely  great,  the 
wound  soon  closed  up,  and  healed,  in  those  heinga  who  are 
Tested  with  immortality. 

I  question  not  but  Milton,  in  hia  description  of  hia  furious 
3tIbloch  flying  from  the  battle,  and  bellowing  with  the 
wound  he  had  received,  had  his  eje  on  Mara  in  the  Iliad; 
vho,  upon  his  being  wounded,  is  represented  as  retiring  out 
^flf  the  fight,  and  making  an  outcry  louder  than  that  of  a 
vhole  army  when  it  begins  the  charge.  Homer  adds,  that 
!  Gfreeka  and  Trojans,  who  were  engaged  in  a  generd 
Uttle,  were  terrjfled  on  each  side  with  the  bellowing  of  this 
rounded  deity.  The  reader  will  easily  observe  how  Milton 
as  kept  all  the  horror  of  this  image,  without  running  into 
[le  ritUcule  of  it. 

— Where  Ihe  might  of  Gabriel  fought. 
And  with,  fierce  ensigns  pierced  the  deep  array 
Of  Moloch,  fiirious  king,  who  him  defied. 
And  at  his  chariot  wheels  to  drag  him  bound 
TlireatGned,  nor  from  the  Holy  One  of  heaven 
B«trmned  his  tongue  blasphemous ;  but  anon 
Down  cloven  to  the  waist,  wilb  shuttered  arms 
And  uncouth  pain,  fied  bellowing.— 

Milton  has  likewise  raised  his  description  in  this  book 
ith  many  images  taken  out  of  the  poetical  parts  of  Scrip- 
The  Messiah's  chariot,  as  I  have  before  taken  notice, 
formed  upon  a  vision  of  Ezekiel,  who,  as  Grotius  observes, 
IB  verj'  much  in  him  of  Homer's  spirit'  in  the  poetical 

;3  ol  his  prophecy. 
The  following  lines  in  that  glorious  commission  which  is 

'  Mtich  in  Mm  of  Homer'i  ipirit.']  Rather,  a  spirit  much  above  Ho- 
ler"* ;  witness  the  gradual  departure  of  the  Divine  presence  from  the 
lly  temple  and  city,  by  several  successive  stages ;  with  dreadful  prophe- 
ts intenniied,  till,  in  the  end,  (As  glory  of  the  Lord,  charioted  by  linng 
lieela  and  wiogod  chembims,  lakes  its  station  vpan  the  mountain  iBhick 

on  the  ta4t  lide  of  the  city — the  most  sublime  and  terrible  idea  lliat  ii  to 
I  mat  with  in  any  author.     See  Eiekiel,  ch.  x.  xi. 


giTen  the  MeBBiah  to  extirpate  the  host  of  rebel  angola,  ti  i 
drawn  irora  a  sublime  passage  in  the  Faalms. 

Go  then,  (liou  mightiest,  in  Ihj  Fa.tjier's  might. 
Ascend  my  chariot,  guide  the  rapid  wheels 
That  shake  heaven's  haaia,  bring  Torth  oil  my  war 
My  bow.  my  thunder,  my  almighty  armd. 
Gild  on  thy  swoid  on  thy  puissant  thigh. 

The  reader  will  easily  i^eeover  many  other  atrokea  of  the 
flame  nature. 

There  is  no  queation  but  Milton  had  heated  hia  imagina- 
tion with  the  fight  of  the  goda  in  Homer,  before  he  entered 
upon  this  engflgoment  of  the  angels.  Homer  there  givee  ua 
a  Bceue  of  men,  heroes,  and  gods,  mixed  together  in  battle. 
Mara  animates  the  contending  amiieH,  and  lifts  up  hia  voice 
in  such  a  manner,  that  it  is  beard  distinctly  amidst  all  the 
ehouta  and  confusion  of  the  fight.  Jupiter  at  the  same  time 
thundera  over  their  hea:da ;  whOe  Neptune  raises  auoh  a 
tempest,  that  the  whole  field  of  battle,  and  alt  the  tops  of 
the  mountains,  shake  about  them.  The  poet  tells  us,  that 
Pluto  himself,  whose  habitation  was  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
earth,  was  so  afirighted  at  the  shock,  that  he  leaped  firom  hia 
throne.  Homer  afterwards  describes  Vulcan  as  pouring 
down  a  storm  of  fire  upon  the  rirer  Xanthus,  and  Minerva 
aa  throwing  a  rock  at  Mara  ;  who,  he  tells  us,  covered  seven 
acres  in  his  fall. 

As  Homer  has  introduced  into  his  battle  of  the  goda 
everything  that  is  great  and  terrible  in  nature,  Milton  haa 
filled  bis  fight  of  good  and  bad  angels  with  all  the  like  eir- 
cumatances  of  horror.  The  about  of  armies,  and  rattling  of 
brazen  chariots,  the  burling  of  rocks  and  mountains,  the 
earthquake,  the  fire,  the  thunder,  are  all  of  them  employed 
to  lift  up  the  reader's  imagination,  and  give  him  a  suitable 
idea  of  so  great  an  action.  "With  what  art  haa  the  poet 
represented  the  whole  body  of  the  earth  trerabling,  even  be- 
fore  it  was  created ! 

In  how  sublime  and  just  a  manner  does  he  afterwards  de- 1 
Bciibe  the  whole  heaven  shaking  under  the  wheels  of  thev 
Messiah's  uhariot,  with  that  exception  of  the  throne  of  Qod!| 

— Undar  his  butning  wheels 
The  Btedfcat-BinpjreHJi  shook  Ihruuehout, 
AU  but  lie  Ibroae  ilself  of  God.— 

Notwitb standing  the  Messiah  appears  clothed  with  so 
much  terror  and  majesty,  the  ^oet  hais  atil]  found  meana  to 
make  his  readers  conceive  an  idea  of  him  beyond  what  he 
limself  was  ahle  to  describe. 

Yet  half  his  Btrenglh  lie  put  not  forfh,  bat  checked 
His  Ihunder  in  mid  soIIej  ;  for  he  meant       ■ 
Mot  to  destroy,  but  root  thorn  out  of  heaTeO. 

In  a  word,  Milton's  genius,  which  was  so  great  in  itself, 
and  so  strengthened  by  all  the  helps  of  learning,  appears  in 
^JuH  boot  every  way  equal  to  hia  subject,  which  was  the  most 
Bublinie  that  could  enter  into  the  thoughts  of  a  poet.  Aa 
he  knew  aU  the  arts  of  affecting  the  mind,  he  knew  it  was 
necessary  to  give  it  certain  restrng-plaees  and  opportunities 
p<rf  recovering  itself  from  time  to  time :  he  has,  therefore, 
irith  great  address  interspersed  several  speeches,  reflections, 
■imilitudea,  and  the  like  reliefs,  to  diversify  hia  narration, 
land  ease  the  attention  of  the  reader,  that  he  might  come 
■fi^Bh  to  his  great  action ;  and  by  such  a  contrast  of  ideas, 
have  a  more  lively  taste  of  the  nobler  parts  of  his  description. 

B"o.  339.    8ATUEDAT,  MAECH  29. 

— Ut  his  eiordip,  primis 
Omnia,  Ot  ipse  tener  Mundi  concrorerit  grbis. 
Turn  durare  solum  et  diicludere  Korea  ponto 
Cceperit,  et  rerum  pauUatim  sumere  formaH.     Vtno, 

LoBGtSTjB  has  observed,  that  there  may  be  a  loftiness  in 
Bentdmenta  where  there  is  no  passion,  and  brings  instancea 
out  of  ancient  authors  to  support  this  his  opinion.  The 
■pathetic,  as  that  great  critic  observes,  may  onimate  and  in- 
aame  the  sublime,  but  ia  not  essential  to  it.  Accordingly, 
I  he  further  remarks,  we  very  often  find  that  those  who 

r excel  most  in  stirring  up  the  passions,  very  often  want  the 
talent  of  vrriting  in  the  great  and  sublime  manner ;  and  bo 
aa  the  contrary.   Milton  has  shown  himself  a  master  in  battv 
— I  these  ways  of  writing.    The  seventh  book,  -w^iii^  ■««  ws*  •oswi 
kcateiin^  opon,  is  an  instance  of  that  &u\i^iae  '^\adiy  "tA 'W 


.  milt  and  worked  up  with  pasaion.     The  author  Mtpeajs  ini^ 
kind  of  composed  aiid  sedate  tnajeet/ ;  and  though  the  senl^^ 
mcute  do  not  give  bo  erent  an  emotion  as  those  in  the  formw 
book,  they  abound  with  ae  magnificent  ideaa.   The  Biith  book, 
like  a  troubled  ocean,  reprcBents  greatness  in  confusion  ;  the 
seventh  affects  the  imagmstion  like  the  ocenu  in  a  calm,  aad   ' 
fills  the  mind  of  the  reader,  without  prodneiiig  in  it  anything 
like  tumult  or  agitation. 

The  critic  above-mentioned,  among  the  rulea  ■which  he  lays 
down  for  succeeding  in  the  auhlime  way  of  writing,  proposes 
to  his  reader  that  ho  should  imitate  the  moat  cdebrated 
authors  who  have  gone  before  him,  and  been  engaged  in 
works  of  the  same  nature ;  as  in  particular,  that  if  he 
writes  on  a  poetical  subject,  he  should  consider  how  Homer 
would  have  spoken  on  such  an  occasion.  By  this  means  one 
great  genius  often  catches  the  flame  from  another,  and  writes 
in  his  spirit  without  copying  servilely  after  him.  There  are 
a  tiioueand  shining  poBsogea  in  Vu'gU,  which  have  been 
lighted  up  by  Homer. 

Milton,  though  hia  own  natural  strength  of  genius  waa 
capable  nf  fumisliing  out  a  perfect  work,  has  doubtless  verjr 
much  raised  and  ennobled  nia  conceptions,  by  such  an  imi- 
tation as  that  which  LonginuB  has  recommended. 

In  this  book,  which  givea  us  an  account  of  the  sii  days' 
works,  the  poet  received  but  very  few  asaiatances  from  hea- 
then writers,  who  were  atrangera  to  the  wonders  of  creation. 
But  aB  there  arc  many  glorious  atrokea  of  poetry  upon  this 
subject  in  holy  writ,  the  author  has  numberleas  allusions  to 
them  tlirough  the  whole  course  of  thia  book.  The  great 
critic  I  have  before  mentioned,  though  an  heathen,  has 
taken  notice  of  the  sublime  manner  in  which  the  law-giver 
of  the  Jews  has  deacribed  the  creation  in  the  first  chapter  of 
GenesiB ;  and  there  are  many  other  passages  in  Senpture, 
which  rise  up  in  the  same  majesty,  where  this  subject  is 
touched  upon.  Milton  has  shown  his  judgment  very  re- 
markabjy,  in  making  use  of  auch  of  these  as  were  proper 
for  hia  poem,  and  in  duly  qualifying  thoae  high  atraina  of 
Eaatem  poetry,  which  were  suited  to  readers  whose  ima- 
ginations were  set  to  an  higher  pilch  thaa  thoae  of  colder 


Adam'a  speech  to  the  angel,  wherera  he  deairea  an  account 
of  wiat  had  parsed  within  the  regions  of  nature  before  the  J 

raeation,  ia  vevj  great  and  solemn.  The  folSowitg  linea,  m 
which  he  tells  him,  that  the  day  is  not  too  far  spent  for  Uin: 
to  enter  upon  such  a,  subject,  are  exquisite  in  their  kind. 

And  Ihe  great  light  of  ilB,y  yel  waulii  to  iim 

Much  of  his  race,  though  Bteep.  Buspeose  in  heaven 

Held  by  thy  soice,  thy  potent  Toice  he  hears. 

And  longer  will  delay  to  hear  lliee  tell 

HU  gaudration,  Ac— 

The  angel's  encouraging  our  flrat  parents  in  a  modest  pur- 
Buit  after  knowledge,  with  the  cauaea  which  he  oaaigns  for 
the  creation  of  the  world,  are  very  juat  and  beautiftil.  The 
IMesaiah,  by  ■whom,  aa  we  are  told  in  Scripture,  the  worlds 
Vere  made,  comes  fortti  in  the  power  of  hia  Father,  sur- 
Jfounded  with  an  hoat  of  angels,  and  clothed  with  such  a 
majesty  as  becomes  his  entering  upon  a  work,  which,  accord- 
ing to  our  conceptions,  appears  the  utmost  eiertion  of  omni- 
potence. What  a  beautitul  description  haa  our  author 
raised  upon  that  hint  in  one  of  the  prophets ;  "  And  behold 
there  came  four  chariota  out  fcom  between  two  mountaiuB, 
And  the  mountains  were  movintaina  of  brass." 

Cherub  and  eemph,  paleulates  and  thrones, 

And  virtues,  winged  spirits,  and  chariots  winged. 

From  the  armoury  of  God,  where  aland  of  old 

Hyriada  betweea  two  brazen  mountains  lodged 

Against  a  Bolcmn  day,  hamest  at  hand ; 

Calealial  equipage  ;  and  now  came  forth 

SpuclaneouH,  for  within  Ihcm  spirit  lived, 

Attendant  on  (heir  Lord  :  HeaTen  opened  wids 

Her  ever-duriiig  gutea,  liarmaniouit  sound. 

On  golden  hinges  moving — 
I  have  before  taken  notice  of  theae  chariota  of  Gfld,  and 
of  these  gates  of  heaven,  and  shall  here  only  add,  that  Homer 
eivea  ub  the  aame  idea  of  the  latter  as  opening  of  themselves, 
Uough  he  afterwards  takes  off  irom  it,  by  telling  us,  that  the 
hours  first  of  all  removed  those  prodigious  heaps  of  clouds 
.which  lay  as  a  harrier  before  them. 

I  do  not  know  anything  in  the  whole  poem  more  sublimo 
than  the  deacriptioQ  which  follows,  where  the  Messiah  is 
wpreseoted  at  the  head  of  hia  angels,  aa  looking  down  into 
'&e  Chaoa,  calming  its  confusion,  riding  into  the  midst  of  it, 
'    '  drawing  the  Brat  outline  of  the  creation. 

On  heavenly  ground  tliey  stood,  and  liomLhe  dune 

They  vieiri'd  the  vast  imineBBUcaUc  ab^'B* 

OuiragBoua  as  a  sea,  dark,  waaleEul,  ^Nild, 


Dp  from  the  bottom  lumcd  by  furious  winfb 
And  nirging  wares,  as  uiountaina  to  usauh 
Heaven's  hcigli*.  uid  wiili  the  centre  mix  lie  pola> 

Silence,  ye  troubled  wives,  and  ihou  deep,  pew      ' 
Skid  then  th'  omnifio  void,  your  discord  end. 

Norsuycd,  but  on  the  wings  of  cherubim 
Dp-lifted,  in  piicniBl  glory  rode 
Frt  into  ChuiB,  and  the  world  unhom  : 
Foi  Chaos  heard  hia  roice  :  him  all  hia  train 
Followed  in  bright  procession,  to  behold 
Creation,  and  the  wondeis  of  hia  might. 
Then  stayed  the  feivid  wheels,  and  in  hia  hand 
He  look  the  golden  compasses,  prepared 
In  God's  etenml  store,  to  circumscribe 
This  universe,  and  all  created  things : 
One  foot  he  centred,  and  the  other  tnmed 
Round  through  the  vast  piofiindity  obscure. 
And  said,  Thua  lar  citctid.  thas  far  thy  bounds, 
ThLt  1)0  ihy  just  circumference,  O  world. 

The  thought  of  the  golden  compaaaea  is  conceived  altoge 
in  Homer'a  spirit,  and  ia  a.  very  noble  incidout  in  this  w 
derfd  description.  Homer,  when  he  speaka  of  the  gods, 
tLBcribea  to  them  Beverol  arms  and  inatrumonts  with  the  same 
Rreatness  of  imagination.  Let  the  reader  only  peruse  the 
tieBcription  of  Minerva'a  jEgia,  or  buckler,  in  tne  fifth  book 
of  the  niad,  with  hep  epear,  which  would  overturn  whole 
squadrons,  and  her  helmet,  that  was  BufGcient  to  cover  an  army 
drawn  out  of  an  hundred  cities  :  the  golden  compaaeeB  in  the 
above-mentioned  paaaage  appear  a  very  natural  instnunent  in 
the  hand  of  him,  whom  Plato  Bomewhere  caUs  the  Divine 
Geometrician.  Ab  poetrif  delights  in  clothing  abstracted 
ideas  in  aUegories  and  sensible  images,  we  find  a  magnificent 
description  of  the  creation  formed  after  the  same  manner  in 
one  of  the  prophets,  wherein  he  describes  the  Almighly 
architect  as  measuring  the  waters  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
meting  out  the  heavens  with  his  span,  comprehending  the 
dust  of  the  earth  in  a  measure,  weighing  the  mountains  in 
scdea,  and  the  hills  in  a  balance.  Another  of  them,  describing 
the  Supreme  Being  in  this  great  work  of  creation,  representa 
him  as  laying  the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  stretching  a 
line  upon  it.  And  in  another  place,  as  garnishing  the  hea- 
vens, stretching  out  the  north  over  the  empty  place,  and 
hanging  the  earth  upon  nothing.  This  last  uoble  thought 
Milton  has  expressed  in  the  follovi-ing  verse : 
And  earth  aelf-balanced  on  her  teatie  himg. 

The  beauties  of  description  in  this  hoot  lie  so  veiy  thick, 
that  it  is  impoBsible  to  enumerate  them  in  this  paper.  The 
poet  has  employed  on  them  the  whole  energy  of  our  tongue. 
The  Heveral  great  scenea  of  the  creation  rise  up  to  view  one 
after  another,  in  such  a  maauer,  that  the  reader  seems  pre- 
sent at  this  wonderiiil  work,  and  to  assist  among  the  choirs 
of  angels,  who  are  the  spectatora  of  it.  How  glorious  is  the 
coQclusion  of  the  first  day  ! 

— Thus  was  the  first  day  even  and  morn. 

Nor  past  uncelebrated,  nor  unsung 

By  the  celeatial  choirs,  v?hen  orient  light 

Exhaling  first  from  darkness  Ihoy  Ijehcld ; 

Birlh-day  of  heaven  and  ottrtli :  with  joy  imd  shout 

The  hollow  universal  orb  they  filled. 

We  have  the  same  elevation  of  thought  in  the  third  day; 
when  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  and  the  deep  was 

Imiuediatcly  the  mountains  huge  appear 
Emergent,  and  Iheir  broad  bare  backs  upheave 
Into  (he  clouds,  their  tops  ascend  the  sky  : 
So  high  as  heaved  the  tumid  hilla,  so  low 
Down  sunk  n  hollow  bottom  broad  and  deep. 
Capacious  hed  of  waters— 
We  have  also  the  rising  of  the  whole  vegetable  world  de- 
scribed in  this  day's  work,  which  is  filled  with  all  the  graces 
that  other  poets  liavc  lavished  on  their  description  of  the 
Hpring,  and  leads  the  reader's  imagination  into  a  theatre 
equally  surprising  and  beautii'iil. 

The  several  glories  of  the  heavens  make  their  appearance 
on  the  fourth  (Siy. 
I  First  in  his  east  [he  glorious  lamp  was  seen 

I  Regent  of  day,  and  all  the  horizon  round 

w  Invested  with  bright  rays,  jocund  to  run 

^H  His  longitude  through  heaven's  high  road :  the  grey 

^^^^^     Sawn  and  the  Pleiades  before  him  danced, 
^^^^^L  Shedding  sweet  influence :  less  bright  the  moon, 
^^^^^^V  But  opposite  in  levelled  vest  was  set, 
^^^^^^^  His  mirror,  with  full  face  borrowing  her  light 
^^^^^^V  From  him,  for  other  light  she  noeded  none 
^^^^^^■^  In  that  aspect,  and  still  the  dislanco  keeps 
^^^^^^B   Tillnight;  then  in  Ibe  east  her  turn  sho  shines 
^^^^^^B  Revolved  on  heaven's  great  axle,  and  her  reign 
^^^^^^m  With  thousand  lesser  lights  dividual  holds, 
^^^^^V     With  thousand  thousand  stars  that  then  aj^eue^ 
^M  Spangling  the  hemisphere — 

W      One  would  wonder  iow  the  poet  couli  'be  s^  GOOKuaa'i 

his  desi^ription  oi'  the  bis  duya'  works,  as  to  coin].reheiid 
them  within  the  houiida  of  an  episode ;  aud  at  the  sftme 
time  BO  particular,  as  to  give  ue  a  lively  idea  of  them.  Thia 
is  atill  more  remarkable  in  hia  account  of  the  fifth  and  sixth 
days,  in  which  he  haa  drawn  out  to  our  view  the  whole  tmimal 
creation,  from  the  reptile  to  the  behemoth.  Ab  the  lion  and 
the  leviathan  are  two  of  the  nohleat  productiona  in  the  world 
of  living  creatnres,  the  reader  will  find  a  most  exquisite  spirit 
of  i)oetry  in  the  account  which  our  author  gives  ua  of  tnem- 
The  sixth  day  concludes  with  the  formation  of  man,  upon 
vhich  the  angel  takes  occasion,  as  he  did  after  the  battle  in 
heaven,  to  remind  Adam  of  his  obedience,  which  was  the 
principal  design  of  this  his  visit. 

The  poet  afterwards  represents  the  Messiah  returning  into 
heaven,  and  taking  a  aurvey  of  his  great  work.  There  is 
something  inexpressibly  sublime  in  tnis  part  of  the  poem, 
where  the  author  describes  that  great  period  of  time,  filled 
with  so  many  glorioua  circumstances  ;  when  the  heavens  and 
earth  were  finished ;  when  the  Messiah  ascended  up  in  tri- 
umph through  the  everlasting  gates ;  when  he  looked  down 
■Kith  pleasure  upon  this  new  creation  ;  when  every  part  of 
nature  seemed  to  rejoice  in  its  esistenco  ;  when  the  morning  J 
stars  Boug  together,  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  jcyJ 

So  ev'n  and  mam  accampliaheil  Xhe  sLxIh  day  : 

Yel  not  till  the  Creator,  from  Mb  work 

Desisting,  though  unwearied,  up  returned. 

Up  to  the  heaven  of  heavens,  his  high  abode. 

Thence  to  behold  thi$  new-cieated  world, 

The  Bddilion  of  hi;,  empire  ;  how  it  showed 

In  prospect  from  hia  throne,  how  good,  how  fair, 

Anawering  liia  grent  idea.    Up  he  rode, 

Followed  with  BCc1amB.tion  and  the  sound 

Symphonious  of  ten  thouauid  harps  that  tuned 

Angelic  bomiomes  :  the  earth,  the  aii 

B«90unding,  (thou  rem  ember 'at,  for  Ihou  heord'll,) 

The  heavena  and  all  the  cDnatellaltons  rung. 

The  planrits  in  Uieir  station  listening  atood, 

While  tlie  bright  pansp  oacended  jnhilBOt. 

Open,  ye  everlasting  galea,  they  sung. 

Open,  yo  heavens,  jout  living  doore,  let  in 

The  great  Creator  from  his  work  returned 

Magnificsnl.  bis  six  daya'  work,  a  world. 
I  cannot  conclude  thia  book  upon  the  creation,  withodj 
mentioning  a  poem  which  has  lately  appeared  tinder  thrt^ 
title.    Tbo  work  waa  uciertaken  with  ao  good  an  intention,* 

and  ia  executed  with  bo  great  a  mastery,  that  it  deservea  to 
be  looked  upon  aa  one  of  the  moat  useful  and  noble  pro- 
ductions in  our  Enghsh  verae.  The  reader  cannot  but  be 
pleased  to  find  the  depths  of  philosophy  enlivened  with  all 
the  charms  of  poetry,  and  to  see  so  great  a  strength  of  rea- 
son amidat  so  beautiful  a  redundancy  of  the  imagination. 
The  author  has  shown  ua  tliat  design  in  all  the  works  of  ni^ 
tore,  which  necessarily  leads  ua  to  tbe  knowledge  of  its  first 
cause.  In  short,  he  has  illustrated,  by  numberless  and  in- 
contestabJe  instances,  that  Divine  wisdom  whicli  the  son  of 
Sirach  has  ao  nobly  ascribed  to  the  Supreme  Being  in  his 
formation  of  the  world,  when  ho  tells  us,  "  that  he  created 
her,  and  saw  her,  and  numbered  her,  and  poured  her  out 
upon  aU  his  works." 

No.  345.  ■  SATTJEDAT,  APEIL  0. 

Sanctiiu  hie  animal,  moallaque  capacius  alU: 
Deeral  adhuc,  et  quod  domiiiari  in  ua^lera  posset. 
Nalus  honiD  est—  Ov.  MgI. 

The  accounts  which  Eaphael  gives  of  the  battle  of  angels, 
and  the  creation  of  the  world,  have  in  them  those  qualifica- 
tions which  the  critics  judge  requisite  to  an  episode.  They 
are  nearly  related  to  the  principal  action,  and  have  a  just 
connexion  with  the  fable. 

The  eighth  book  opens  with  a  beautiful  description  of 
the  impression  which  this  discourse  of  the  archangel  made 
on  our  first  parents.     Adam  aftemarda,  by  a  very  natural 
curiosity,  inquires  concerning  the  motions  of  those  celestial 
bodies  which  make  the  most  glorious  appearance  among  the 
lix  days'  works.     The  poet  here,  with  a  great  deal  of  ai't,  re- 
presents Eve  as  withdrawing  from  this  part  of  their  convers- 
ation to   amusements  more  suitable  to  her  ses.     Ho  well 
knew,  that  tho  episode  in  this  book,  which  is  filled  with 
Adam's  account  of  his  paasiou  and  esteem  for  Eve,  would 
have  been  improper  for  her  hearing,  and  baa  therefore  de- 
TJeed  very  just  and  beautiful  reasons  for  her  retiring, 
Sn  apalte  oai  mre,  ud  by  his  coiuitenaac*  seemed 
Enteriutt  on  studious  Ihoughla  abstruse .  which  Em 
Perceiring  -where  she  sat  retired  in  ligU, 

With  lowliaect  m^esiic  fiom  hei  seau 

260  ASDISOirs  VOBES. 

And  gnce  Ihil  won  iiho  saw  to  irUh  her  ilay, 
Rose,  and  «-ent  loitb  ■mcmg  her  fruiu  and  Bo- 
To  riiiit  how  ihey  prijsppied,  bud  uid  bloom, 
Hei  Duiserj  :  they  at  her  coroing  ipnmg, 
And  toocbed  by  her  fair  icndaoce  glwlliei  _ 
Tet  went  she  not,  a>  not  with  mjch  diuxnine 
Delighted,  or  not  capable  her  car 
Of  what  was  high;  auch  pleaaurc  »he  reseired, 
Adam  ri^lBtmg.  she  sole  audilreffi  ; 
Her  huaband  the  relnler  ahe  preferred 
BefoiQ  the  angel,  and  of  Mm  to  ask 
Choae  rather ;  be,  she  knew,  would  intermj* 
Grateful  digreasioDs,  and  solve  high  dispute 
With  conjugoj  caresses  ;  from  his  lip 
Not  words  aloue  pleased  her.     Oh  when 
Such  paira,  in  love  aud  mntual  honour  joined ! 

The  angel's  retiircing  a.  doubtftil  answer  to  Adam's  in- 
quiries, was  not  only  proper  for  the  moral  reason  which  the 
poet  assigns,  hut  hecause  it  would  have  been  highly  absurd 
to  have  given  the  sanction  of  an  archangel  to  any  particular 
iystem  of  philosophy.  The  chief  points  in  the  Ptolemaic 
and  Copemican  hypothesis  are  described  with  great  concise- 
ness  and  perspicuity,  aud  at  the  same  time  dressed  in  yery 
pleasing  atid  poetical  images. 

Adam,  to  detain  the  angel,  enters  afterwords  upon  his  own 
history,  and  relates  to  him  the  circumstaDces  in  which  he 
found  himself  upon  his  creation ;  as  also  hia  conversatioa 
with  his  Maker,  and  his  first  meeting  with  Eve.     There  k 
no  part  of  the  poem  more  apt  to  raise  the  attention  of  the 
render  than  this  discourse  of  our  great  imceator ;  aa  nothing 
can  be  tnore  surprising  and  delightful  to  us,  than  to  hearths 
sentimeuts  that  arose  in  the  first  man  while  he  was  yet  new 
Mid  fresh  frt^m  the  hands  of  his  I'reator.     The  poet  has  in- 
tffrwoveu  t'verythiwg  which  is  delivered  upon  this  subject  in 
holy  writ,  with  «o  tnauy  bl^Autiful  iinagiiiiitions  of  his  own,   . 
that  nothing  can  be  conceived  more  just  and  natural  t" 
this  whole  episode.     As  our  author  knew  this  subject  coul 
not  but  be  agnvuble  to  his  n'ader,  he  would  not  throw  H),! 
into  tho  relation  of  Iho  six  days'  works,  but  reserved  it  Ibr*! 
a  distinct  ppisode,  that  he  iniglit  linve  an  opportunitr  (rf« 
patiatiug  ujHin  it  more  at  large.     Before  1  cntrr  on  tnis  paHl  I 
of  the  poem,  1  cannot  hut  lake  notice  of  two  shining  m»  J 
sages  ia  the  dialogue  between  AiUm  and  the  angcJ.    TfaS'l 
&»t  ia  tlutt  wherein  our  aiMC^tai  ^vv«  azi  kooouat  of  tin  | 


pleaaure  he  took  in  conversing  with  him,  which  contaioB  a 
rery  noble  moral. 

For  while  I  ait  with  thee,  I  seem  in  heaven. 

And  awoetBr  tliy  discourse  is  to  my  ear 

Than  fruits  of  palm -tree  pleasaulest  to  thirst 

And  hunger,  both  from  labour,  at  the  ho^ir 

Of  sweet  repast ;  they  satiate,  and  soon  fill. 

Though  pleasant ;  but  thy  words  with  gmce  Divine 

Imbued,  bring  to  their  sweetness  no  satiety. 
The  other  I  shall  mention  is  that  in  which  the  aneel  givefl 
a  reason  why  he  should  he  glad  to  hear  the  story  Adam  was 
about  to  relate. 

For  I  that  day  was  absent,  aa  befell. 
Bound  on  a  voyage  uncouth  and  obscure, 
Far  on  eicursion  towards  iJie  gales  of  hell, 
Squared  in  full  legion,  (such  command  we  had,) 
To  see  that  none  thence  issued  forth  a  spy. 
Or  enemy,  while  God  w     '    " 

Destruction  with  cr 

it  such  eruption  hold, 
'  n  might  have  mixed. 

There  is  no  queatioii  but  our  poet  drew  the  image  in  what 
follows  fi^m  that  iti  Virgil's  sixth  book,  where  .^neaa  and  the 
Sibyl  stand  before  the  adamantine  gates,  which  are  there  de- 
senbed  as  shut  upon  the  place  of  torments,  and  hsten  to  the 
grooBs,  the  clank  of  chains,  and  the  noise  of  iron  whips,  that 
were  heard  in  those  regions  of  ruin  and  sorrow. 

^Fast  we  found,  fast  shut 
The  dismal  gates,  and  barricadoed  strong ; 
BdI  long  ere  our  approaching,  heard  within 
Noise,  oilier  than  the  sound  of  dance  or  song. 
Torment,  and  loud  lament,  and  furious  rage. 

Adam  then  proceeds  to  give  an  acconnt  of  his  condition 
and  sentimentB  immediately  after  his  creation.  How  agree- 
ably does  he  represent  the  posture  in  which  he  found  nim- 
self,  the  delightful  landahip  that  surroimded  him,  and  the 
"  heart  which  grew  up  in  him  on  that 
—As  new  waked  from  soundest  sleep. 
Soft  on  the  flowery  beib  I  found  me  laid 
In  balmy  sweat,  which  with  his  beams  the  Sim 
Soon  dried,  and  the  reeking  moisture  fed. 
Straight  towBjd  heaven  my  wondering  eyes  1  !■  in 
And  gazed  awhile  the  ample  sky.  till  raised 
By  quick  inatinctiTe  motion  up  I  sprung. 
Am  Ihilherward  endearourins,  and  uyiitf^t 


Stood  on  my  fcBl ;  dbout  ma  round  I  saw 
Hill,  dalii,  and  sha/lv  woods,  uid  siumy  pliuna, 
And  liquid  laps«  of  murmuring  streams ;  by  these, 
Creuturea  that  lived  and  muied,  and  walked  or  flew. 
Birds  an  the  branches  warbling ;  all  things  smiled : 
With  fragrance  and  with  joy  my  heart  o'erflowed. 

Adam  is  afterwards  described  iis  surprised  at  his  o 
istence,  and  taking  a  surrey  of  himaelf,  and  of  all  the  warb 
of  nature.  He  litewise  is  repreaented  as  discovering  by  the 
light  of  reason,  that  he  and  everything  about  him  must  have 
been  the  effect  of  some  Being  infinitely  good  and  powerful, 
and  that  this  Being  had  a  right  to  his  worship  and  ador*- 

ttioii.  His  first  address  to  the  sun,  and  to  those  parts  of  the 
creation  which  made  the  most  distinguished  figure,  is  very 
natural  and  amusiug  to  the  imagination. 

— Thou  sun,  said  1,  fair  light,  ^M 

And  iliou  enlightened  earth,  so  freah  and  gay,  ^| 

Ye  hills  and  dalea,  ye  rivets,  woods,  and  plains,  ^| 

And  ye  [hat  live  and  move,  fair  cieatuies,  lell,  (^ 

Tell  if  you  saw,  how  cama  I  thus,  how  here  ? 
TTia  next  sentiment,  when,  upon  his  first  going  to  sleep,  he 
fancies  himself  losing  his  existence,  and  ialiing  away  into 
nothing,  can  never  be  sufficiently  admired.  Hia  dream,  in 
which  he  still  preserves  the  consciousness  of  hia  exiateace, 
together  with  liis  removal  into  the  garden  which  was  pre- 
pared for  his  reception,  are  also  circumatancea  finely  imaged, 
and  grounded  upon  what  is  delivered  in  sacred  story. 

These  and  the  like  wonderful  incidents  in  this  part  of  the 
work,  have  in  them  all  the  beauties  of  novelty,  at  the  same 
time  that  they  huvo  all  the  graces  of  nature.  They  are  such 
aa  none  but  a  great  genius  coidd  have  thought  of,  though, 
upon  the  perusal  of  them,  tliey  seem  to  rise  of  'themaelvea 
from  the  subject  of  whicli  he  treats,  In  a  word,  though 
they  are  natiiral  they  are  not  obvioua,  which  is  the  true 
character  of  all  fine  writing. 

The  impression  which  the  interdiction  of  the  tree  < 
left  in  the  mind  of  our  first  parent,  ia  described  with  ^ 
strength  and  judgment;  as  the  image  of  the  several  t 
and  birds  passing  in  review  before  him  ia  very  beautiful  i 

— Each  bird  and  beast  behold 
Approaching  iwo  and  two.  these  cowering  low 
Willi  hl.-indishniciit :  em-h  bird  stooped  on  his  wing : 

0.  S4S.  THE   SFECTATOB.  258 

Adam,  in  the  next  place,  describes  a  conference  which  ho 
lield  with  hia  Maker  upon  the  Buhject  of  solitude.  The  poet 
here  represents  the  Supreme  Being,  as  making  an  eaaoy  of 
hia  own  work,  and  putting  to  the  triaJ  that  reasoning  faculty 
■with  which  he  had  endued  hia  creature,  Adam  urges,  in 
this  divioe  colloquy,  the  impoBsiMUty  of  hia  heing  happy, 
though  he  was  the  inhahitant  of  Paradise,  Mid  lord  of  tfie 
■whole  creation,  without  the  conversation  and  society  of  some 
rational  creature,  who  should  partake  those  bleesinga  with 
'  '  n.     This  dialogue,  which  is  supported  chiefly  by  the  oeauty 

the  titoughts,  without  other  poetical  orliamenta,  is  as  fine 
a  port  as  any  in  the  whole  poem :  the  more  the  reader  ei- 
— ines  the  justneas  and  dehcacy  of  its  sentiments,  the  more 
.. .  wiU  find  himself  pleased  with  it.  The  poet  has  wonder- 
lully  preserved  the  character  of  majesty  and  condescension 
ill  the  Creator,  and  at  the  same  time  that  of  humility  and 
adoration  in  the  creature,  as  particularly  in  the  following 

Thus  t  premimptuoua  ;  uid  tho  vision  hriglit, 

Ab  witlt  a  smile  more  biighteiied,  thus  replied.  Sec. 

— I  wiih  leave  of  speech  implored 
And  humble  deprecation  thus  replied. 

My  Maker, 

Adam  then  proceeds  to  give  an  account  of  his  second 
deep,  and  of  the  dream  in  which  he  beheld  the  formation  of 
"Ere.  The  new  passion  that  was  awakened  in  him  at  the 
mght  of  her  is  touched  very  finely. 

Under  his  forming  handa  a  ctenture  grew. 

Manlike,  but  diffeient  sex ;  so  lovely  fair. 

That  what  seemed  fail  in  all  the  world,  seemed  now  ■ 

Mean,  or  in  her  summed  up,  in  hei  conlained,  I 

And  in  her  looks,  which  from  that  time  infused  I 

Sweetness  into  my  heart,  unfelt  before, 

And  into  all  things  from  her  air  iaapiied 

The  spirit  of  love  and  amorous  delight. 

Adam's  distress  upon  losing  sight  of  this  beautiful  phan- 
ttom,  with  his  exclamations  of  joy  and  gratitude  at  the  dis- 
covery of  a  real  creature,  who  resembled  the  apparition  which 
had  been  presented  to  him  in  his  dream ;  the  approaches  he 
makes  to  ner,  and  his  manner  of  courtship,  are  all  laid  to- 
gether in  a  most  exquisite  propriety  of  eentvnieirta. 

Though  this  p&rt  of  the  poem  a  vtixisA.  ^  m'Oa.  ^e^ 


warmtb  and  epirit,  the  love  which  is  deecribed  in  i 
way  suitable  to  a  state  of  ianocence.  If  the  reader  compar  _._  _ 
the  description  which  Adam  here  gives  of  hia  leading  Eve  to 
the  nuptial  "bower,  with  that  which  Mr.  Dryden  has  made  on 
the  same  oceasioa  in  a  scene  of  hia  Fall  of  Man,  he  wiE  be 
sensible  of  the  great  care  which  Milton  took  to  avoid  all 
thoughts  on  so  delicate  a  subject,  that  might  be  ofiensive  to 
religion  or  good  niamiera.  The  sentiments  are  chaste,  but 
not  cold,  and  convey  to  the  mind  ideas  of  the  most  trauaport- 
ing  paaaion,  and  of  the  greatest  purity.  What  a  noble  mix-^ 
ture  of  rapture  and  innocence  baa  the  author  joined  toj 
in  the  reflection  which  Adam  makes  on  the  pleasures  c 
i  to  those  of  sense. 

Thus  have  I  told  thee  ail  my  state,  and  brougM 

My  story  to  the  sum  of  eftrlhly  blisa 

Whicb.  I  ODjoy,  and  mtiat  coofess  to  Scd 

In  all  things  else  delight  indeed,  but  eucli 

As,  used  01  not,  works  in  ibe  mind  no  change, 

Nor  vehement  desire,  these  delicBCies 

I  mean  of  taste,  sight,  smell,  herbs,  fhtits,  and  flowen. 

Walks,  and  the  melody  of  birds ;  but  here 

Far  otberwisB,  transported  I  liehold, 

Transported  touch,  here  passion  litst  I  felt, 

Commotion  strange ;  in  all  enjoyments  else 

Superior  and  unmoved,  here  only  veak 

Aj^inst  the  cbann  of  beauty's  powerful  glance. 

Oi  nature  failed  in  me,  and  lett  some  port 

Not  proof  enough  such  object  to  suatam, 

Or  from  my  side  RubduEting,  took  perhaps 

More  than  enough;  at  least  on  her  bestowed 

Too  much  of  omamBnt,  in  outward  show 

Elaborate,  of  inward  less  esact. 

— When  I  approach 
Her  loveliness,  so  absolute  she  seems 
And  in  herself  complete,  so  well  to  know 
Her  own,  that  what  she  wills  to  do  or  say 
Seems  wisest,  virtuousest,  discicotest,  best; 
All  higher  knowledge  in  her  presence  blla 
Degraded  :  wisdom  in  discourse  nith  her 
Loaea  discounienanced,  and  tike  foUy  shows; 
Authority  and  reason  on.  her  wait, 
As  one  intended  first,  not  after  made 
Occasionally  {  and  to  consummate  all, 
"      '  '    ind  and  nobleness  iheu^  seat 

ilese  sentiinente  of  love  i 

c  first  ^tti«at,  igava  1 


angel  Bueh  aa  insight  into  human  nature,  that  he  seems  ap* 
p^heneive  of  the  evils  which  might  hefiJl  the  species  in  ge- 
serai,  as  well  as  Adam  in  particular,  from  the  exceas  of  this 
He  therefore  fortifies  him  agaicBt  it  by  timely 
admonitiona  ;  which  very  artfully  prepare  the  mind  erf  the 
r  for  the  occurrences  of  the  nest  book,  where  the 
less  of  which  Adam  here  givcB  such  distant  diecoveaieB, 
brings  about  that  fatal  event  which  is  the  subject  of  the 
p>oem.  His  diacourse,  which  follows  the  gentle  rebuke  he 
receiyed  from  the  angel,  ahowa  that  hia  love,  however  violent 
'i  might  appear,  was  still  founded  in  reason,  and  consequentlv 
not  improper  for  Paradiae. 

Neither  ber  outside  form  so  fair,  nor  angbt 
la  prociealioc,  comrnon  to  all  kinds, 
{Though  higher  of  the  genial  bed  by  far. 
And  with  myaterioua  reTercnco  I  deam,) 
So  much  delights  me  sa  those  graceful  acta, 
Those  thousand  decencies,  that  daily  flow 
From  nil  her  words  and  actions,  milt  wilh  love 
And  sweet  compliance,  which  declare  unfeigned 
Union  of  mind,  or  in  ub  both  one  soul ; 
Harmony  to  behold  in  wedded  pair. 

Adam's  speech  at  parting  with  the  angel,  has  in  it  a 
leference  and  gratitude  agreeable  to  an  inferior  nature,  and 
it  the  same  time  a  certain  dignity  and  greatncsa  suitable  to 
iie  fiither  of  mankind  in  hia  state  of  innocence. 

No.  351.    SATUEDAT,  APEIL  12. 

— In  le  omnis  domus  inclinata  iccumbit.    VtBG. 

Jr  -we  look  into  the  three  great  heroic  poems  which  have 
ippeared  in  the  world,  we  may  obaerve  that  they  are  built 
upon  very  slight  foundations.  Homer  lived  near  800  years 
Ifter  the  Trojan  war ;  and,  aa  the  writing  of  history  waa  not 
then  in  use  among  the  Glreeka,  we  may  very  well  suppose, 
$hat  the  tradition  of  Achillea  and  TJlyssea  had  brought 
Jown  but  very  few  particulars  to  his  knowledge ;  though 
Hiere  is  no  question  but  he  has  wrought  into  his  two  poems 
locli  of  their  remarkable  adventures  as  were  still  talted  of 
imoiig  his  contemporaiiea. 

The  atory  of  ^neae,  on  which  "Vic^  io^lIv4s.^  Via  -^qkwi^ 

Tl  I    i fliml    11  1  tfi  Ifliii    11 1  Hii 

off  eyepything  ttat  miglit  have  appeared  improper  for  a  pas- 
tags  in  an  heroic  poem.  The  propheteaa  who  foretells  it  ii 
<au  huBgry  Iiarpy,  as  the  person  who  discovers  it  is  young 

Heua  eliam  menaaa  conaumlmua,  inquil  IuIub. 

in  obaervation,  which  is  beautiful  in  the  mouth  of  a 
Tioy,  would  have  been  ridiculous  from  any  other  in  the  com- 
,  I  am  apt  to  think,  that  the  changing  of  the  Trojan 
into  water-nymphs,  which  ia  the  most  violent  machine 
ID  the  whole  jEneid,  and  has  given  offence  to  several  critics, 
inay  be  accounted  for  the  same  way.  Virgil  himself,  before 
he  begins  that  relatioo,  premises,  that  what  he  was  going  to 
tell  appeared  incredible,  hut  that  it  was  justified  by  tradition. 
'"What  further  confirms  me  that  this  change  of  the  fleet  was 
%  celebrated  circumstance  in.  the  history  of  jEneas  is,  that 
Ovid  has  given  a  place  to  the  same  metamorphosis  in  hia 
iaecount  of  the  heathen  mythology. 

None  of  the  critics  I  have  met  with  ha\ing  considered  the 
^^  iible  of  the  jEneid  in  this  light,  and  taken  notice  how  the 
ibadition,  on  which  it  was  founded,  authorizes  those  parts  in 
it  which  appear  the  moat  exceptionable,  I  hope  the  length  of 
this  reflection  will  not  make  it  unacceptable  to  the  curioiis 
jart  of  my  readers. 

The  history  which  was  the  basis  of  Milton's  poem,  is  still 
horter  than  either  that  of  the  Iliad  or  .Sineiu.  The  poet 
laa  likewise  taken  care  to  insert  eveiy  circumatauce  of  it  in 
ihe  body  of  hia  fable.  The  ninth  boot,  which  we  are  here  to 
Sonsider,  is  raised  upon  that  brief  account  in  Scripture, 
wherein  we  are  told  that  the  serpent  was  more  subtle  than 
iny  beast  of  the  field,  that  he  tempted  the  woman  to  eat  of 
tiis  forbidden  fruit,  that  she  waa  overcome  by  this  tempta- 
^on,  and  that  Adam  followed  her  eaample.  Irora  theae  few 
Berticulara  Milton  has  formed  one  of  tne  most  entertaining 
aibles  that  invention  ever  produced.  He  has  disposed  of 
^ese  several  circumstances  among  so  many  agreeable  and 
latnral  fictions  of  his  own,  that  his  whole  story  looks  only 
ike  a  comment  upon  sacred  writ,  or  rather  aeems  to  be  a 
EhU  and  complete  relation  of  what  the  other  is  only  an  epi- 
Ome.  I  have  insisted  the  longer  on  this  consideration,  as  I 
Kik  ujmn  the  disposition  and  contrivance  of  tlve  &\)\e  *wi\ift 
be  principal  beautj  of  the  ninth  book,  w\\\eWafi  move  R'wst^ 

in  it.  and  is  fuller  of  incidents,  than  any  othiT  in  the  whole 
poem.  Satun'a  truveraiug  the  globe,  and  stil!  keeping  within 
the  shadow  of  the  night,  as  fearing  to  be  discovered  by  the 
angel  of  the  sun,  who  had  before  detected  him,  is  one  of  those 
beautiful  imnginatians  with  which  he  introduces  this  hia 
second  series  of  adventures.  Having  eiamined  the  nature 
of  every  creature,  and  found  out  one  which  was  the  moat 
proper  for  hia  purpose,  he  again  returns  to  Paradise ;  and,  to 
avoid  discovery,  sinks  by  night  with  a  river  that  ran  under 
the  garden,  and  rises  up  again  through  a,  fountaio  that  issued 
from  it  by  the  tree  of  life.  The  poet,  who,  as  we  have  be- 
fore taken  notice,  speaks  as  little  aa  possible  in  his  own  per- 
son, and,  after  the  example  of  Homer,  fills  every  part  of  hia 
work  with  manners  and  characters,  introduces  a  soliloquy  of 
tliis  infernal  agent,  who  was  thus  restless  in  the  destruction 
of  man. '  He  is  then  described  as  gliding  through  tho  garden 
under  tho  resemblance  of  a  mist,  in  order  to  find  out  that 
creature  in  which  he  designed  to  tempt  our  first  parents. 
This  description  has  something  in  it  very  poetical  and  sur- 

So  saying,  tbrou^li  each  thicket  dank  or  diy, 

Lite  tt  black  mat,  low  creeping,  lie  held  on 

His  midnighl  saarclh,  where  soonest  he  might  find 

The  scrpcnL :  Mm  fast  sleeping  sDon  lie  fcimd 

In  labyrinth  of  many  a  round  aelf-roUed, 

Mia  head  the  midst,  well  stored  with  suhtle  wiles. 

The  author  afterwards  gives  us  a  description  of  the  morn- 
ing, which  is  wonderfully  suitable  to  a  divine  poem,  and 
peculiar  to  that  first  season  of  nature :  he  represents  the 
earth,  before  it  was  curst,  as  a  great  aJtar,  breathing  out  its 
incense  from  all  parts,  and  sending  up  a  pleasant  savour  to 
the  nostrils  of  the  Creator ;  to  which  he  adds  a  noble  idea 
of  Adam  and  Eve,  as  ofiering  their  morning  worship,  and 
tilling  up  the  miiversai  consort  of  praise  and  adoration. 
Now  when  the  sacred  light  began  to  dawn 
In  Eden,  on  the  humid  flowers,  that  breathed 
Their  monting  incense,  wben  all  things  that  breathe 
From  the  earth's  great  altar  send  up  allent  praise 
To  the  Creator,  and  hia  nostrila  fill 
With  grateful  smell,  forth  came  the  httman  pair, 
And  joined  their  >otal  worsbip  to  the  choir 
Of  creatnres  wauling  voice  .— 

The  dispute  which  follows  between  our  two  first  parent* 
ie  represented  with  great  art ;  it  proceeds  from  a  difference 

BO.  Ul. 


>ment,  not  of  passiou,  aud  is  managed  with  reason,  not 
leat ;  it  is  Bucli  a  dispute  as  we  may  suppose  might 
have  happened  in  Paradise,  had  man  continued  happy  and 
innocent.  There  is  great  delicacy  in  the  moralities  which 
are  interspersed  in  Adam's  discourse,  and  which  the  moat 
ordinary  reader  cannot  but  take  notice  of.  The  force  of  love 
which  the  father  of  mankind  so  fin«ly  describes  in  the  eighth 
book,  and  which  is  inserted  in  the  foregoing  paper,  shows  it- 
self here  in  many  fine  instances ;  as  in  those  ibnd  regards  he 
cast  towards  Eve  at  her  parting  &om  hjiii : 

Her  long  willi  ardent  look  his  eje  poraued 

DeKghled,  but  dBsiring  more  her  stay ; 

Oft  he  to  her  his  charge  of  quick  retum 

It«pea.ted  ;  slie  to  him  as  oft  enga^d 

To  he  letumed  by  noon  umid  the  bower. 

In  his  impatience  and  amusemcut  during  her  absence : 

— Adam  Ihe  while 



us  he 


um,  liad  wove 




Bci  ties 

fii!B,  ai 


al  lahours  crown, 

Aa  reap 


their  Eiarvcst  queen 

Great  iov  he  promiaml 

0  ilia  tltoughlB,  and 

Solaee  ii 




long  delayed. 

But  particularly  in  that  passionate  speech,  where,  seeing 
iex  irrecoverably  lost,  he  resolves  to  perish  with  her,  rather 
9iBii  to  live  without  her. 

— Some  cursed  ftaud 
Or  enemy  hath  beguiled  thee,  yet  unkcown, 
And  me  with  thea  tuLlh.  ruined,  for  witli  Ihee 
Certain  my  resolution  ia  to  die ; 
How  can  1  live  without  thee,  how  forego 
Thy  Hweet  converse,  and  Ioto  bo  dearly  joined. 
To  live  again  in  these  wild  woods  forlorn  ? 
Should  God  create  another  Eve,  and  I 
Another  rib  afford,  yet  loss  of  thee 
Would  neyer  from  ray  heart;  no,  no,  I  feel 
The  link  of  nature  draw  me  :  flesh  of  my  ftest. 
Bene  of  my  bone  lion  art,  and  from  Ihy  slaje 
Mine  never  shall  be  parted,  bliss  or  woe. 
The  beginning  of  this  speech,  and  the  preparation  to  It, 
are  animated  with  the  same  spirit  as  the  conclusion,  which 
I  have  here  quoted. 

The  sever^  wilea  which  are  put  in  practice  by  the  tempter, 
L when  he  found  Eve  separated  from  her  husband,  the  many 
f  pleasing  images  of  nature  which  are  intermiied  in  this  part 


£80  ADCIBOya   WOUES. 

of  the  Btorj,  witb  ita  gradual  and  regular  pro|Tess  to  t 
fata!  catBatt-ophe,  are  bo  very  remarkable,  that  it  would  I 
Buperfluoua  to  point  out  their  respective  beautieB. 

I  have  avoided  mentioning  any  particular  similitudea  i 
my  remarks  on  this  great  work,  because  I  have  given  b  s  ' 
nerftl  account  of  them  in  my  paper  on  the  first  book.     Tt 
la  one,  however,  in  this  part  of  the  poem  which  I  shall  t, 
quote,  as  it  is  not  only  very  beautiful,  but  the  cloBeat  of  al 

a  ihe  whole 

1  that  where  the  serpent  is  i 

scribed  as  rollmg  forward  in  all  his  pride,  animated  by  tl 
evil  spirit,  and  conducting  Eve  to  ner  deatruetion,  wl^ 
Adam  waa  at  too  great  a  distance  from  her  to  give  her  if 
asaiatance.  These  several  particulars  are  all  of  them  wroiig' 
into  tbe  following  similitude : 

— Hope  eleTateB,  and  jay 

Brighlsns  bia  creat ;  as  when  a  wandering  6r8 

Compact  at  unctuous  Tttpoar,  Mhith  the  oiglit 

Condenses,  and  the  cold  eniicons  round, 

Kindled  through  agilatian  to  a  flame, 

SVhich  oft,  they  say,  some  evil  apiril  atlenda,) 
overing  and  blazing  with  delusive  light, 
Misleads  the  amazed  mght-wandcier  from  hia  way 
To  bogs  and  tnitea,  and  oft  through  pond  oi  pool. 
There  swallowed  up  and  lost,  from  succour  far. 

That  secret  intosication  of  pleasure,  with  all  those  t 
(ient  flushings  of  guilt  and  joy,  which  the  poet  represents  i 
our  first  parents  upon  their  eating  the  iorbidden  fruit,  to 
those  flaggings  of  spirit,  damps  of  sorrow,  and  mutual  ac- 
cusations which  succeed  it,  are  conceived  with  a  wonderful 
imagination,  and  described  in  very  natural  sentiments. 

When  Dido,  in  the  fourth  JSieid,  yielded  to  that  fatal 
temptation  which  ruined  her,  Virgil  tells  us  the  earth  trem- 
blei^  the  heavens  were  filled  with  flashes  of  lightning,  and 
the  nympha  howled  upon  the  mountain- tops.  Milton,  in 
the  same  poetical  spirit,  haa  described  all  nature  as  disturbed 
upon  Eve  s  eating  the  forbidden  fruit. 

So  saying,  her  rash  hand  in  evil  hour 
Forth  reaching  to  the  fruit,  abe  plackcd,  she  ate  j 
Earth  telt  the  wound,  and  Nature  from  her  seat, 
Sighing  through  all  her  worlis,  gave  signs  of  woe 
That  all  was  lost — 

Upon  Adam's  falling  into  the  same  guilt,  the  whole  c: 
Iftwi  appeara  a  eejond  time  in  convulsions. 

-~He  scrupled  not  to  eat 
Against  bis  better  knowledge,  not  deceived, 
But  fundly  OTercome  willi  female  charm. 
EBTtli  tiembled  troin  her  entrails,  aa  again 
In  pangs,  and  Nature  gaye  a  second  groan, 
Sky  lowered,  and,  rautlering  thunder,  some  ead  dropi 
Wept  at  completing  of  the  mortal  sin.^ 

Aa  aU  Nature  suffered  by  the  guilt  of  our  first  parenti, 
ttese  aymptoms  of  trouble  aud  consternation  are  wondep- 
fully  imagined,  Dot  only  aa  prodigies,  but  as  marks  of  her 
BjmpatbiKing  in  tlie  ftll  of  man. 

Adam's  converse  with  Eve,  after  having  oaten  the  for- 
bidden Iruit,  is  an  esact  copy  of  that  between  Jupiter  and 
Juno  in  the  fourteenth  Iliad.  Juno  there  approaehea  Ju- 
piter with  the  girdle  which  she  had  received  from  Venus ; 
upon  which  he  tells  her,  that  she  appeared  more  charming 
and  desirable  than  she  had  ever  done  oefore,  even  when  their 
loves  were  at  the  highest.  The  poet  afterwards  describes 
them  aa  reposing  on  a  summit  of  Mount  Ida,  which  pro- 
duced under  them  a,  bed  of  flowers,  the  lotos,  the  crocus,  and 
the  hyacinth,  and  concludes  his  description  with  their  iall- 
ing  asleep. 

Xiet  the  reader  compare  this  with  the  following  passage 
in  Milton,  which  begins  with  Adam's  speech  to  £ve : 

For  never  did  thy  beauty  since  the  day 

I  saw  thee  first,  and  wedded  iJiee,  adamed 

With  all  perfections,  to  inflame  my  sense 

With  ardour  to  enjoy  thee,  fairer  now 

Thau  ever,  bounty  of  this  rirtuous  tree. 
So  said  he,  and  forbore  not  glance  or  toy 

Of  amorous  intent,  well  understood 

Of  Eve,  whose  eye  darted  contagious  Are. 

Her  hand  he  seized,  and  to  a  shady  bank, 

Thick  overhead  with  verdant  roof  embowered. 

He  led  her,  nothing  lot^ :  flowers  were  the  Couch, 

Fonsies,  and  violets,  and  asphodel, 
I  And  hyacinth,  earth's  freshest,  soflest  lap. 
f'Tbeie  they  thoir  fill  of  love,  and  love's  disport) 
I  Took  largely,  of  tlieir  mutual  guilt  the  seaJ, 

The  solace  of  Uieir  sin,  till  dewy  sleep 

Oppressed  them — 

no  poet  seems  ever  to  have  studied  Homer  more,  or  to 
I  have  resembled  him  in  the  greatness  of  genius,  than  Milton, 
W I  think  I  should  have  given  but  a  very  imperfect  e£i«»isf<i  tjt 
I  lis  beauties,  ii'  i.  had  not  observed  tbe  maat  TemaiYsMua  -^«»"  i 

enges  which  laok  liko  pnrallelB  in  the»e  two  great  authorSLl 
I  might,  in  the  course  of  these  criticisms,  have  taken  notioe 
of  many  particuhir  lines  and  expressions  which  me  translate 
from  the  Greek  poet ;  but  as  I  thought  thia  would  have  a 
peared  too  minute  and  over-curious,  I  have  purposely  on  ' 
them.     The  greater  incidents,  however,  are  not  only  & 
by  being  shown  iu  the  same  light  with  several  of  the  b 
nature  m  Homer,  but  bv  that  means  may  be  also  | 
against  the  cavils  of  the  tasteless  or  ignorant. 

So,  357.     SATrEDAT,  APEIL  19. 

TEnlperct  a  Incn-mis  ?—         VlHG. 

The  tenth  book  of  Paradise  Lost  has  a  greater  variet 
persons  in  it  than  any  other  in  the  whole  poem.  The 
thor,  upon  the  winding  up  of  his  action,  introduces  all  tlw 
who  had  any  concern  m  it,  and  shows  with  great  beauty  Vl 
influence  which  it  had  upon  each  of  them.  It  ia  like  the  li 
act  of  a  well-written  tragedy,  in  which  all  who  had  a  , 
it  are  generally  drawn  up  before  the  audience,  and  rep) 
sented  imder  those  eircumBtaucea  in  which  the  determinatil 
of  the  action  places  them. 

I  ahall,  therefore,  consider  thia  book  under  four  heads,  ] 
relation  to  the  celestial,  the  infernal,  the  human,  and  1. 
imaginary  persons,  who  haTe  their  respective  parts  allotti 
in  it. 

To  be^n  with  the  celeatial  persons :  the  guardian,  a 
of  Paradise  are  deacribed  as  returning  to  heaven  upo 
fall  of  man,  in  order  to  approve  their  vigilance ;  their  a 
their  manner  of  reception,  with  the  sorrow  which  appeai_ 
themselves,  and  in  those  spirits  who  are  aaid  to  rejoice! 
the  courersion  of  a  sinner,  are  very  finely  laid  togetheaifl 
the  following  lines. 

Up  into  heaven  from  Paradise  in  haste 
The  angelic  guards  ascimded,  mule  and  aad 
For  man,  for  of  Ma  slate  by  this  they  knew. 
Much  wondering  how  the  subtle  fiend  had  stolen 
Bntninoe  unseen.     Soon  as  Ihe  unwoli^ome  new* 
Prom  earth  arrived  at  heaven-gate,  displeaaed 

All  were  who  heard,  dim  sadness  did  not  spare 
That  time  celestial  visages,  yet  miied 
With  pity,  Tioliited  not  thoir  bliss. 
About  lie  new-ani.ed  in  mnltitudoa 
The  elharesl  people  lan.  to  hear  and  know 
How  all  befell :  they  towards  the  throne  supreme 
Aecountable  mude  haste  to  make  appear 
With  righteous  plea  their  utmost  rigilance, 
And  easily  approved  ;  when  tlie  Most  High, 
Eternal  Father,  from  hia  secret  ctoud 
Amidst,  in  Ihuuder  uttered  thus  hia  Toice. 

The  HaJne  Divine  person,  who,  in  the  foregoing  parts  of 
this  poem,  interceded  for  our  first  parenta  before  their  fall, 
jrthrew  the  rebel  angela,  and  created  the  ■world,  is  now  re- 
a  descending  to  Paradise,  and  pronouncing  sen- 
}  upon  the  three  offenders.  The  cool  of  the  evening 
being  a  circumstance  with  which  holy  writ  introduces  this 
eat  scene,  it  is  poetically  described  by  our  author,  who 
a  also  kept  religiously  to  the  form  of  words,  in  which  the 
ree  several  sentences  were  passed  upon  Adam,  Eve,  and 
_e  serpent.  He  has  rather  chosen  to  neglect  the  numerons- 
less  of  his  verse,  than  to  deviate  from  those  sneeeheB  which 
e  recorded  on  this  great  occasion.  The  guilt  and  confu- 
m  of  our  first  parenta  atonding  naked  before  their  Judge, 
t  touched  with  great  beauty,  tjpon  the  arrival  of  Sin  and 
i)eath  into  the  works  of  the  creation,  the  Almighty  is  again 
btrodnced  as  speaking  to  his  angels  that  surrounded  hitn. 
See  with  n-hat  heat  these  dngsof  hell  advance 
To  waste  and  haroo  yonder  world,  which  I 
So  fair  and  good  created,  &c. 
The  following  passage  is  formed  upon  that  glorious  image 
'  holy  writ,  which  compares  the  voice  of  an  innumerable 
ist  of  augels,  uttering  hallelujaha,  to  the  voice  of  mighty 
tindetings,  or  of  many  waters. 

Be  ended,  and  the  heavenly  audience  loud 
Sung  hatlelujah,  as  the  sound  of  seas. 
Through  multitude  thai  sung ;  "  Just  aje  Ihy  ways, 
ItightsouB  are  thy  decrees  iit  all  thy  works  ; 
\Vho  con  eilenuale  thee  ?  "— 

Though  the  author,  in  the  whole  course  of  his  poem,  and 
irticularly  in  the  hook  we  are  now  examining,  has  infinite 
lueions  to  places  of  Scripture,  I  have  only  taklen  Taalvw,  vt^ 
ly  remarks  of  such  as  are  of  a  poeticaV  ii.B,ta-ce,  K&i.  -sSatix 


are  woven  witb  great  beauty  into  the  body  of  this  fable. 
this  kind  is  tlint  paBsage  in  the  preaent  book,  where  desc 
ing  Sin  and  Death  aa  marching  tnrough  the  works  of  natu 
he  adds, 

— Behind  hcT  Dealh 

Close  following  pace  for  pace,  not  moimled  ;et 

Ob  hia  pate  horse  I — 

"Wliich  alhides  to  that  passage  in  Scripture  so  wonderfullT 
poetical,  and  ttrritying  to  the  imaainatioa.  "  And  I  looked, 
and  behold  a  pale  horse,  and  his  name  that  eat  on  him  was 
Death,  and  Hell  followed  with  him ;  and  power  was  giren 
unto  them  over  the  fourth  part  of  the  earth,  to  kill  with  the 
Bword,  and  with  hunger,  and  with  sickneBs,  and  with  the 
beasts  of  the  earth."  Under  this  first  head  of  celeetial  per- 
sons we  must  likewise  take  notice  of  the  command  which 
the  angels  received,  to  produce  the  several  changes  in  na- 
ture, and  sully  the  beauty  of  the  creation.  Accordingly  they 

are  represented  as  infecting  the  stars  and  planets  with  mal- 

nant  influences,  weakening  the  light  of  the  sun,  hringi 
down  the  winter  into  the  milder  regions  of  nature,  plantii 
winds  and  storms  in  several  quarters  of  the  sky,  storing  t 
clouds  with  thunder,  and,  m  short,  perverting  the  whe 
frame  of  the  universe  to  the  condition  of  its  criminal  i 
habitants.  As  this  is  a  noble  incident  in  the  poem,  i 
lowing  lines,  in  which  we  see  the  angels  heaving  up  i 
earth,  and  placing  it  in  a  difierent  posture  to  tbe  sun  fi 
what  it  had  before  the  fall  of  man,  is  conceived  with  t 
sublime  imagination  which  was  so  peculiar  to  this  f 

Some  Bay  he  bid  his  Hngda  turn  BBkancs 

The  pnlea  of  Bttrth  twice  ten  degrees  and  more 

From  Iho  sun's  axla  ;  they  with  labour  pushed 

Oblique  llie  centric  globe.— 

We  are  in  the  second  place  to  consider  the  infernal  agental 
under  the  view  which  Milton  has  given  uh  of  them  in  t'  "" 
book.  It  is  observed  hy  those  who  would  set  forth  i._ 
greatness  of  Virgil's  plan,  that  he  conducts  his  reader  through  I 
all  the  parts  of  the  earth  which  were  discovered  in  his  time.* 
I  Asia,  Africa,  and  Europe  are  the  several  scenes  of  his  &ble.  I 
iThe  plan  of  MUtoa's  poem  is  of  an  infinitely  greater  extent^! 
/  and  fills  the  mind  with  many  more  astoaiahfng  circumstance^  1 
Satan  having  surrounded  the  earth  seven  times,  departs  ttj 

to.  8S7.  TUX   BPDCTATOB.  266 

length  from  Paradise.  We  then  see  hira  steering  his  courae 
among  the  const'jilationa,  an.d  after  having  troversed  the 
whole  creation,  pursuing  his  voyage  through  the  Chaos,  and 
entering  into  his  own  infernal  aominions. 

Hia  first  appearance  in.  the  aasemhly  of  fallen  angels,  u 
worked  up  witn  eircumatances  which  give  a  delightful  su^ 
priee  to  the  reader ;  but  there  is  no  incident  in  the  whole 
-poem  which  does  this  more  than  the  transformation  of  the 
"whole  audience,  that  follows  the  account  their  leader  ffives 
>^hem  of  hia  expedition.  The  gradual  change  of  Satan  nim- 
flelf  is  described  after  Ovid'a  manner,  and  may  vie  with  any 
of  those  celebrated  transform ations  which  are  looked  upon 

)  the  moat  beautiful  parta  in  that  poet's  works.     Milton 

ever  fails  of  improving  his  own  hints,  and  bestowing  the 
ilast  finishing  touches  to  every  incident  which  is  admitted  into 
Ma  poem.  The  unexpected  hias  which  rises  in  thia  episode, 
the  dimensions  and  hulk  of  Satan,  so  much  superior  to  those 
^of  the  infernal  spirits  who  lay  tmder  the  same  transforma- 
tion, with  the  annual  change  which  they  are  aupposed  to 
luffer,  are  instances  of  this  kind.  The  beau^  of  the  diction 
a  Tery  remarkable  in  thia  whole  episode,  as  I  have  observed 
n  the  aiith  paper  of  these  remarks  the  great  judgment  with 
which  it  waa  contrived. 

The  parts  of  Adam  and  Eve,  or  the  human  persons,  come 
leit  under  our  consideration.  Milton's  art  is  nowhere 
nore  shown  than  in  his  conducting  the  parts  of  these  oiu" 
"    '  parents.     The  representation  he  gives  of  them,  without 

^ ^ing  the  story,  is  wonderfully  contrived  to  influence  the 

jieader  with^^  pity  and  compassion  towards  them.  Though 
Ldom  involves  the  whole  species  In  misery,  his  crime  proceeds 
from  a  weakness  which  every  man  is  inclined  to  pardon  and 
Sommiserate,  as  it  seems  rather  the  frailty  of  human  nature, 
ftian  of  the  person  who  offended.  Eveiy  one  is  apt  to  excuse 
i  fault  which  he  himself  might  have  faUen  into.  It  was  the 
jrceas  of  love  for  Eve  that  ruined  Adam  and  hia  posterity.  I 
leed  not  add,  that  the  author  is  justified  in  this  particular  by 

if  the  Fathers,  and  the  most  orthodox  writers.     Milton 

»n«  (A»  reader  tDi(A— ]  The  esproaaioii  ia  hard,  Bud  scarce  al- 
Whon  we  uso  influence  as  b.  verb,  we  use  it  absolutely ;  as 
' rueli  eamidaralioiu  infiaeiueii  Mm,"  that  is,  Imd  on  efTect  or  influenca 
bon  him ;  without  apecifying  the  effect  produced.  Ke  ImA.  ey^traw 
buBelfbetter,  if  hahadsaid,  lojUI  tAa  riodar'a  nund  tntlv— w^Ui  MiJI 
\t  Ttader'i pity,  &c. 

hiui  by  thU  meaiiB  filled  a  preat  part  of  his  poem  with  t 
kind  of  writing  which  the  French  eritics  call  the  tender,  ( 
which  is  in  a  jwrtieular  manner  engaging  to  all  sorts  o 

Adam  and  Eve,  in  the  book  we  are  now  considering,  are 
likewise  drawn  with  such  aentimenta  as  do  not  only  interest 
the  reader  in  their  afflictione,  but  raise  in  him  the  most  melt- 
ing paaaiooB  of  humanity  and  oo  rami  aeration.  When  Adam 
BeeH  iho  eeveral  changes  in  nature  produced  about  him,  he 
appears  in  a  disorder  of  mind  suitable  to  one  who  had  fop- 
foited  both  his  innocence  and  happiness :  be  is  filled  witllj 
horror,  remorse,  ilosjiair ;  in  the  anguish  of  hia  heart  he  BT 
postulates  with  hia  Creator  for  having  given  him  an  u 

Did  I  requMt  )hl^D,  Maker,  from  my  cinv 

To  mould  me  mun,  did  I  solicit  (hev 

From  dirknesB  lo  promote  me,  or  here  place 

In  this  delicious  garden  ?  Aa  my  will 

Concurred  not  lo  my  being,  'iware  bul  right 

And  oqil»l  lo  raduea  ma  to  my  dust, 

DeairouB  to  rasi^,  and  reader  buck 

All  1  roooiTed — 

He  immediately  afler  recovers  from  his  presutnphon,  o 

lia  diiiim  to  !«•  just,  and  be^fs  that  the  death  which  is  threat- 
med  mny  be  innicted  ou  hiiu. 

Fii»d  on  ihU  lUy  (  vhy  do  I  ovtrli 
Why  •m  I  moclMd  viin  doath,  and  Icti^ettcd  out 
To  dMlMow  paiD  r  how  fdndly  would  1 
MorMllIy  mv  wnlvncv,  *nd  H  mrUi 


MorMllIv  mv  wnlvncv,  *nd  be  mrUi 

ItUMiilbIa!  how  (iRd  would  lav  mv  down 

A*  ia  m}*  wolber^  lap  I  Ihcre  should  I  rest 

And  th*f  MicuT*  i  his  drradhil  vwra  no  mace 

WouM  thiiiubr  in  my  wir*,  no  k*t  of  nise 

To  m*  uid  lo  my  olb)iiiu]i  would  lormeul  toe 

With  (n«J  w»)i«M«tii<ft,  — 
This  wkulti  spivt'h  ia  l\ill  til'  tli»  like  emotion,  and  varied 
with  kII  thnM>  •vitlitut>ul«  whiv'h  vn>  nuty  suppo$«  n&tural  to  a 
tttinil  Ml  hrokirn  nnd  ilistitrlHx).  1  mtist  not  omit  that  gener- 
OH*  nwomi  whicli  our  Rrsl  iitthfr  «hi<n-s  in  it  for  his  pos* 
tw».v,  »»A  vthioh  in  <«,»  prvntOT  lo  itlSvt  thi>  r««der. 
— HhI*  m«  Ihiiw  tW  An>* 

ttfOwL  iA«N  V.<  MoU  'KM  iVm  «;  I 


Othappinraa:  yet  well  if  here  would  end 
The  mbeiy,  1  deBGrred  it,  and  would  bear 
My  own  deserctngB  i  but  itiis  will  not  nerve  ; 
All  that  I  eat  or  dtiok,  or  stull  beget, 
la  propngated  ct;rBe.    O  voice  once  heaid 
Delightfully,  "  Increiise  and  multi|ily," 
Now  duath  tc  ' 

-111  IT 


FoEtetity  stendE  curst :  fair  patrimony 
That  I  muBt  leave  you,  sons  1  Oh  were  I  able 
To  waste  it  all  myaelf,  and  leave  you  none  ! 
So  disinluirited  how  would  you  bless 
Me  now  your  curse  !  ah,  why  should  all  mankind 
For  one  man's  fault  thus  guiilless  be  condemned. 
If  guiltless  ?  but  from  me  what  cau  proceed 
But  all  corrupt— 
Who  can  affcerwarda  behold  the  father  of  mankind  eitend- 
i  upon  the  earth,  uttering  his  midnight  complaints,  bewail- 

Bghta  existence,  and  wishing  for  death,  without  sympathizing 

irith  him  in  his  distress  P 

I'hiis  Adam  tu  himself  lamented  loud 
Through  the  Elill  night,  nut  now,  as  ere  man  fell, 
Wholuioine  and  cool  and  mild,  but  with  black  air 
Accompanied,  with  damps  and  dreadful  glooui. 
Which  10  his  evil  conscience  represented 
All  tilings  with  double  terror :  on  the  ground 
Out9tre1ched  he  lay,  on  the  cold  ground,  and  oH 
Cursed  hie  creation,  death  as  o(^  accused 
Of  tardy  execulion.— 

The  part  of  Eve  in  tliia  book  is  no  lesa  paaBionate,  and  api 
a  sway  the  reader  in  her  favour.  She  is  represented  with 
ye&t  tenderness  as  approaching  Adam,  hut  is  spumed  from 
im  with  a  spirit  of  upbraiding  and  indignation  conformable 
0  the  nature  of  man,  whose  passions  had  now  gained  the 
^^ominion  over  hira.  The  following  paaaage,  wherein  she  is 
iescribed  as  renewing  her  addresses  to  him,  with  the  whole 
Ipeech  that  follows  it,  have  something  in  them  exq^uisitely 
Boving  and  pathetic. 

He  added  not,  and  from  her  turned ;  hut  Eve 

Not  BO  repulaed,  with  (ears  that  ceased  cot  flowing, 

And  tresses  all  disordered,  at  his  feet 

Fell  humble,  and  embracing  Ihcm  besought 

His  peace,  and  thus  proceeded  in  her  plaint. 
Porsako  mo  not  thus,  Adam  ;  witness,  heaven, 

What  love  eincera  and  rcvorenoe  in  my  heart 

I  bear  tlii^e,  and  unweeting  have  offended. 

Unhappily  deceived;  thy  auppUanl 

IDt,  ^H 

perhapt,  ^^H 

JDDiaOS'S   W0UK3. 

I  be;,  Bjid  clasp  Iky  kn^ea;  bcrouve  ni( 
Whereon  I  lire,  thy  gentle  looks,  thy  aid, 
Thy  couiisel  in  (his  uttermosl  dislre&g. 
My  only  strength  and  stay  :  forlom  of  ihee 
Whither  shall  1  hetake  me,  whete  subsist ! 
While  yet  we  live,  bcstcb  one  ehort  hour  perhapi, 
Between  na  two  let  there  be  peace,  &c. 

I  Adam'B  reconcilement  to  her  is  worked  up  i 
i  Bpirit  of  tenderEtBa.  Eve  afterwards  proposes  to  her  hus- 
band, in  the  hliiiduess  of  her  deepair,  that  to  prevent 
their  guiJt  from  descending  upon  posterity,  they  should  re- 
flolve  to  live  childless ;  or,  if  that  could  not  he  done,  they 
should  seek  their  own  deaths  by  violent  methods.  As  those 
seutiments  naturally  engage  the  reader  to  regard  the  mother 
of  mankind  with  more  than  ordinary  commiseration,  they 
likewise  contain  a  very  fine  moral.  Iiie  resolution  of  dying, 
to  end  our  miseries,  does  not  show  such  a  degree  of  magna- 
nimity as  a  resolution  to  bear  them,  and  submit  to  the  disu 
pensationa  of  Providence.  Oiu"  author  has  therefore,  with 
great  dehcacy,  represented  Eve  as  entertaining  this  thought^ 
and  Adam  as  disapproving  it. 

We  are,  iu  the  last  place,  to  consider  the  imaginary  pep- 
sons,  or  Death  and  Sin,  who  act  a  large  part  in  this  hook. 
Such  heautifid  extended  allegories  are  certainly  some  of  the 
finest  compositions  of  genius ;  but,  as  I  have  before  observed, 
are  not  agreeable  to  the  nature  of  an  heroic  poem.  This  of 
Sin  and  Death  is  very  exquisite  in  its  kind,  if  not  considered 
as  a  part  of  such  a  work.  The  truths  contained  in  it  i 
clear  and  open,  that  I  shall  not  lose  time  in  explaining 
but  shall  only  observe,  that  a  reader  who  knows  the  strei.^ 
of  the  English  tongue,  will  be  amazed  to  think  how  the  pi 
could  find  such  apt  words  and  phrases  to  describe  the  act' 
of  those  two  imaginary  persons,  and  particidarly  in  ' 
part  where  Death  is  ediihited  aa  forming  a  bridge  over 
Chaos  ;  a  work  suitable  to  the  genius  of  Milton. 

Since  the  subject  I  am  upon  gives  me  an  opportnnity  of 
speaking  more  at  large  of  such  shadowy  and  imaginary  pap* 
Bons  as  may  be  introduced  in  heroic  poems,  I  shall  beg  leave 
to  erplaia  myself  in  a  matter  which  is  curious  in  its  kind, 
and  which  none  of  the  critics  have  treated  of.  It  is  certain 
Homer  and  Yirgil  are  full  of  imaginary  persons  who  are  very 
beautiful  in  poetry  when  they  are  just  shown  without  being 
cngageA  m  any  series  of  action.     Homer,  indeed,  represente 


TSO^  S87.  THE   BFECTATOX.  260 

Sleep  OS  a  person,  and  ascribes  a  short  part  to  him  in  his 
niad ;  but  we  must  consider,  that  thoueh  we  now  regard  auch 
a  perBoa  aa  entirely  shadowy  and  unaubatantial,  the  heathens 
made  statues  of  him,  placed  him  in  their  temples,  and  looked 
upon  hira  as  a  real  deity.  When  Momer  makea  use  of  other 
such  allegorical  persons,  it  is  only  in  short  expressions, 
which  convey  an  ordinary  thought  to  the  mind  in  the  most 
pleasing  manner,  and  may  rather  be  looked  upon  aa  poetical 
phraaea  than  allegorical  descriptions.  Instead  of  telling  us 
fhat  men  naturally  fly  when  they  are  terrified,  he  introduces 
the  persona  of  Flight  and  Pear,  who,  he  tells  us,  are  insepar- 
able companions.  Instead  of  sayine  that  the  time  was  come 
when  ApoUo  ought  to  have  received 'hia  recompence,  he 
telle  UB  that  the  Hours  brought  liini  his  reward.  Instead  of 
describing  the  effects  which  Minerva's  ^gia  produced  in 
battle,  he  tella  ua  that  the  brima  of  it  were  encompassed  by 
Terror,  Bout,  Discord,  Fury,  Pursuit,  Massacre,  and  Death. 
In  the  same  figure  of  speaking,  he  represents  Victory  aa  fol- 
lowing Diomedea ;  Discord  aa  the  mother  of  Minerals  and 
mourning ;  Venus  as  dressed  by  the  Graces ;  Bellooa  as  wear- 
ing terror  and  conaternation  like  a  garment.  I  might  give 
several  other  instances  out  of  Homer,  as  well  as  a  great 
many  out  of  Virgil.  Milton  has  likewise  very  often  made 
use  of  the  same  way  of  speaking,  as  where  he  tella  us,  that 
Victory  sat  on  the  right  hand  of  the  Messiah  when  he 
marched  forth  against  the  rebel  angels ;  that  at  the  rising  of 
the  aim  the  Hours  unbarred  the  gates  of  Light ;  that  Dis- 
cord was  the  daughter  of  Sin.  Of  the  same  nature  are  those 
expressions,^  where  describing  the  singing  of  the  nightingale, 
he  adds,  "Silence  waa  pleased;"  and  upon  the  Messiah's 
bidding  peace  to  thb  Chaos,  "  Confusion  heard  his  voice." 
I  might  add  innumerable  instances  of  our  poet's  writing  in 
this  beautiful  figure.  It  is  plain  that  these  I  have  mentioned, 
in  which  persons  of  an  imaginary  nature  are  introduced,  are 
Bneh  short  allegories  aa  are  not  designed  to  be  taken  in  the 
literal  sense,  but  only  to  convey  particular  circumstances  to 
the  reader  after  an  unusual  and  entertaining  manner.  But 
when  such  persons  are  introduced  as  principal  actors,  and 
engaged  in  a  aeries  of  adventures,  they  take  too  much  upon 
them,  and  are  by  no  means  proper  for  an  heroic  poem,  which 
ought  to  appear  credible  in  its  priucimY  ^a.-rt.ft,  "V  oassoKi 
forbear,  therefore,  thinking  that  SinaD.l'Dea.'ila.KreiWiNas^ 




per  agcnits  in  a  work  of  this  nature,  as  Strength  and  Xec 
sity  in  ooe  of  the  tragedies  of  ^achjlus,  who  k_ 
ihoae  two  persons  naiBug  down  ProiiietheuB  to  a  rock,  il 
which  he  haa  been  justly  censured  by  the  greatest  critica.  I 
do  not  know  any  imaginary  peraon  made  use  of  in  a  more 
snbliine  manner  of  thinking  than  that  in  one  of  the  prophets, 
who,  deacrihing  God  aa  descending  from  heaven,  and  visitang 
the  aim*  of  manldnd,  adds  that  druadful  cireumatance,  "  Be- 
fore him  went  the  Pestilence."  It  is  certain  this  imaginary 
Person  might  have  been  described  in  all  her  purple  spots. 
he  Fever  might  have  marched  before  her,  Pain  might  nave 
atood  on  her  right  hand,  Phremsy  on  her  left,  and  Death  in 
her  rear.  She  might  have  been  introduced  aa  gliding  down 
Irom  the  tail  of  a  comet,  or  darting  upon  the  earth  in  a  flash 
of  lightning :  she  might  have  tainted  the  atmosphere  witli 
her  breath ;  the  very  glaring  of  her  eyes  might  have  scat- 
tered infection.  But  I  believe  every  reader  will  think,  that 
in  such  fluhlime  writings  the  mentioning  of  her,  aa  it  it  '' 
in  Scripture,  haa  aomethiug  in  it  mere  just,  as  well  as  ^ 
than  all  that  the  most  fanciful  poet  could  have  bestowed 
upon  her  in  the  richneaa  of  his  imagination. 

No,  363,     SATURDAY,  APKIL  26. 

— Cnidelia  ubiquc 
Luctus,  ubiq^ae  pavor,  el  pliirimo  mortis  imago.     Virq. 

MitTOS'  has  shown  a  wonderful  art  in  describing  thail 
variety  of  passions  which  arose  in  our  iirst  parents  upon  tha 
breach  of  the  commandment  that  had  been  given  them.    Wa 
see  them  gradually  passing  from  the  triumph  of  their  gui 
through   remorse,  shame,   despair,  contrition,  prayer,  an 
hope,  to  a  perfect  and  complete  repentance.     At  the  end  a 
the  tenth  book  they  are  represented  aa  prostrating  themselvHL 
upon  the  ground,  and  watering  the  earth  with  their  teu^iL 
to  which  the  poet  Joins  this  beautiful  circumstance,  thafrll 
they  offered  up  their  penitential  prayers  on  the  very  placoiJ 
where  their  Judge  appeared  to  them  wheu  he  pronouncad'  1 
their  sentence. 

—They  forthwith  I o  the  pine 
Repairing  where  he  judged  them,  proatrale  fell 
Beibre  iira  rt ■  " •*  *•""■  -"•'"•^ 

t,  and  bolk  conieued 

There  ia  a  heauty  of  the  same  kiod  in  a,  tragedy  of  Sopho 
cles,  where  Oedipus,  after  having  put  out  his  own  eyes,  in- 
stead of  hreaking  his  neck  fiMm  the  palace  hattlejnentB, 
(which  fumiBhes  so  elegant  an  entertainmeot  for  our  English 
audience,)  desires  that  he  may  he  conducted  to  Mount  Cith»- 
pon,  in  order  to  end  his  life  m  that  very  place  where  he  waa 
eiposed  in  hia  infancy,  and  where  he  stould  then  have  died, 
faafl  the  will  of  hia  parents  hecn  executed. 

As  the  author  never  fails  to  give  a  poetical  turn  to  his 
sentinients,  he  deseribea  in  the  beginning  of  thia  book  the 
acceptance  which  these  their  prayers  met  with,  in  a  short 
allegory  formed  upon  that  beautiful  passage  in  holy  writ ; 
"  And  another  angel  came  and  stood'  at  the  altar,  having 
a  golden  censer ;  and  there  was  given  unto  him  much  in- 
cense, that  he  should  offer  it  with  the  prayers  of  all  saints 
upon  the  golden  altar,  whii-h  vfas  before  the  throne ;  and  the 
amoke  of  the  incense  which  came  with  the  prayers  of  the 
aaints  ascended  up  before  Qod." 

— To  hearer  iJieir  prayers 
Plew  up,  nor  missad  the  way  by  envious  winds 
Blown  THgaband  or  frustrate  :  ia  ihey  passed 
Diaieasionless  IhrouRh  haavenly  doors,  then  clad 
Wilh  incense,  whera  the  Rolden  allar,  fumad 
By  tlair  great  Intercassor,  came  in  aight 
Before  the  Father's  throne — 
We  have  the  same  thought  expressed  a  second  time  in 
the  intercession  of  the  Messiah,  which  is  conceived  in  very 
•emphatic  senlimenta  and  espreaaions. 

Among  the  poetical  parts  of  Scripture  which  Milton  has 

1  finely  wrought  into  thia  part  of  hia  narration,  I  must  not 

omit  that  wherein  Ezekiel,  apeaking  of  the  angels  who  ap- 

:d  to  him  in  a  vision,  adds,  that  "  every  one  had  four 

.  and  that  their  whole  bodies,  and  their  hacks,  and  their 

liands,  and  their  wings,  were  full  of  eyes  round  about." 

—The  cohort  briehl 
Of  watchful  cherubim ;  four  faces  each 
Had,  hke  a  doable  Jauua,  all  their  shape 
Spangled  wilh  eyes — 
The  assembling  of  all  the  angela  of  beaveu.  \.o  Viias  \)aft 
decree  passed  upon  man,  ia  regreacDtei  m  ■^ex^  \w^g   ' 

ideas.  The  Almighty  is  here  described  as  rememberia| 
mercy  in  the  midat  ot  jtidgment,  and  commanding  Michae. 
to  delirer  his  meseage  in  the  mildest  terms,  test  the  Bpirit 
of  man,  which  was  already  broken  with  the  dense  of  his 
guilt  and  misery,  should  fjid  before  him. 

—Yet  leal  ihey  faint 
At  (lie  s&d  aenlence  n^rorously  urged, 
(For  1  behold  tbem  softened,  and  with  I 
BewBiling  their  excess,)  all  letroi  hide. 


The  conference  of  Adam  and  Eve  is  full  of  moving 
timeats.  Upon  their  going  abroad  afber  the  melancholy 
night  which  they  had  passed  together,  they  discoTer  the  lion 
and  the  eagle  pursuing  each  of  them  their  prey  towards  the 
eastern  gates  of  Paradise.  There  is  a  double  beauty  in  this 
incident,  not  only  as  it  presents  great  and  juat  omens,  which 
are  always  agreeable  in  poetry,  but  m  it  expresses  that  en.. 
mity  which  was  now  produced  in  the  animal  creation.     The 

Eoet,  to  show  the  like  changes  in  nature,  as  well  as  to  grace 
is  fable  with  a  noble  prodigy,  represents  the  sim  in  an 
eclipse.  This  particular  incident  baa  likewise  a  fine  effect 
upon  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  iu  regard  to  what  fol- 
lows ;  for  at  the  same  time  that  the  sun  is  under  an  eclipse, 
a  bright  cloud  descends  in  the  western  quarter  of  the  heavens, 
filled  with  a  host  of  angels,  and  more  luminous  than  the  sun 
itself.  The  whole  theatre  of  nature  is  darkened,  that  this 
glorious  machine  may  appear  in  all  its  lustre  and  ~ 

— Why  in  the  east 
Dirknesfl  eic  day's  mid  course,  and  momine  light 
More  orient  in  that  western  cloud  that  draws 
O'er  the  blue  firmament  a  radiant  white. 
And  slow  deaceads,  with  something  heavenly  fraught  t 

He  erred  not,  for  by  this  the  heaienly  bands 
Down  from  a  sky  of  jasper  lighted  now 
In  Pamdiee,  and  on  a  hill  made  halt ; 
A  glorious  apparitioD — 

I  need  not  observe  how  properly  this  author,  who  alwi 
■aits  bis  parts  to  the  actors  he  introduces,  has  emploj 
Michael  in  the  expuleion  of  our  first  parents  out  of  Paradt 
The  archangel  on  this  occasion  neither  appears  in  his  proper 
shape,  nor  in  that  familiar  manner  with  which  Eaphael  the 
pociable  spirit  entertained  the  father  of  mankind  before  the 
&11.     His  person,  his  port,  and  behaviour,  are  suitable  to  ■ 

T?IS  BPB0TA.TOB.  273 

mint  of  tLe  highest  rank,  and  eiquisitely  described  in  the 
lUowing  passage. 

Clod  to  meet  man  ;  oier  hia  luc^id  Umi 
A  militnry  rest  of  purple  fluwcd 
Livelier  than  MelibiEaii,  or  tho  grain 
OCSarra,  worn  by  kings  and  heroes  ulil 
In  tima  of  truce;  Iria  had  dipt  the  woof. 
His  starry  helm,  unbuckled,  libowed  liim  prima 
In  manhood  where  youth  ended ;  by  his  side 
As  ill  a  glistering  zodiac  hung  the  sword. 
Salan's  dire  dread,  and  ia  Itis  hand  the  apesr. 
Adam  bowed  low :  he  kingly  frDm  his  stale 
Inclined  not,  but  hia  coming  thus  declared. 

Eve's  complaint  upon  hearing  tlat  she  was  to  be  remoye, 
from  the  garden  of  Paradise  ia  wonderfully  beautifiil :  the 
sentiments  are  not  only  proper  to  the  subject,  but  haTe 
■omething  in  them  porticumrly  soft  and  womanish. 

I  Must  I  then  leave  thee.  Paradise  ?  thus  leave 

Titee,  native  soil,  these  happy  walks  and  shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  goda  ?  -where  1  had  hope  (a  spend 
Quiet,  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 
That  must  be  mortal  to  us  both.    O  Bowers 
That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 
My  early  visitation  and  my  last 
At  ev'n,  whith  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 
From  tho  first  opening  bud,  and  gave  you  names ; 
Who  now  shall  rear  you  to  the  eun,  or  rank 
Your  tribes,  and  water  from  the  ambrosial  fount  r 
Thee,  lastly,  nuptial  bower,  by  me  adorned 
With  what  to  sight  or  smell  was  sweet :  &om  thee 
How  shall  I  pari,  and  whither  wander  down 
Into  a  lower  world,  to  this  obscure 
And  wild !  how  shall  we  breathe  in  otiier  air 
Less  pure,  accustomed  to  immortal  ftuils? 

Adam's  speech  abounds  with  thoughts  which  are  equally 
moving,  ana  of  a  more  mascuiine  and  elevated  turu.  Mo- 
thing  cau  be  conceived  more  BubJime  and  poetical  than  the 
following  passage  in  it. 

This  most  afflicts  me,  that  departing  hence 

As  from  hia  fate  I  shall  be  hid.  deprived 

His  blessed  coimteaance.    Here  1  could  frequent, 

With  worship,  place  by  place  where  he  vouchsafed 

Presence  Di        , 

On  tliis  mount  he  appeared, 

Stood  visible,  amoDg  these  piies  his 


I  heard,  here  with  him  at  Ihis  lounlain  laika!. 

So  many  grateful  alturs  I  would  r«ar 

Of  grassy  turf,  and  pile  up  every  Etone 

Of  lustre  from  tlie  brook,  in  memory 

Or  monument  to  agea,  and  thereon 

Offer  aweet-amalling  gums  and  traits  and  flowora. 

In  yondn  nether  world  where  shall  I  seek 

H  is  hright  appearances,  or  footsteps  trace  ? 

For  though  1  fled  him  angry,  yet  recalled 

To  life  prolonged  and  promised  race,  I  now 

Gladly  behold  though  but  his  utmoEl  skins 

Of  glory,  and  fur  olf  his  aieps  adore. 

The  angel  aftenvarda  leads  Adam  to  the  highest  mount  a 
Paradise,  and  lays  before  him  a  whole  hemisphere,  as  a  pro 
per  etage  for  thoao  viBiona  which  were  to  be  reppesented  03 
it.     I  ha^e  before  observed  how  tbe  plan  of  Milton's  poe 
is  in  many  particularB  greater  than  that  of  the  Iliaa  < 
.^neid.  Virgil'ahero,  in  the  last  of  these  poema.iaeotertai 
with  a  sight  of  all  those  who  are  to  descend  from  him  ; 
though  that  episode  ia  justly  admired  as  one  of  the  noblest 
designs  in  the  whole  ^npid,  every  one  must  allow  that  this 
of  Milton  ia  of  a  much  higher  nature.     Adam's  vision  is 
not  confined  to  any  particular  tribe  of  mankind,  but  extends  ■ 
to  the  whole  speciea.  J 

In  this  great  review  which  Adara  takes  of  all  his  sona  an^l 
daughters,  the  first  objects  he  is  presented  with  exhibit  i 
him  the  story  of  Cain  and  Abel,  which  ia  drawn  togethj 
with  much  closenesa  and  propriety  of  expression,  Thi 
curiosity  and  natural  horror  wnich  arises  m  Adam  at  1^ 
sight  of  the  first  dying  man,  ia  touched  with  great  beauty,  ■ 

Horrid  lo  think,  how  In 

The  second  vision  acts  before  him  the  image  of  death  in  a 
great  variety  of  appearances.  The  angel,  to  give  him  a  ge- 
neral idea  of  those  eflecta  which  hi  a  guilt  had  Drought  upon 
his  posterity,  places  before  him  a  large  hospital,  or  lazar- 
houae,  filled  with  persona  lying  under  all  kinds  of  mortal 
diseases.  How  finely  has  the  poet  told  ua  that  the  sick  per- 
sons languished  under  lingering  and  incurable  distempers, 
bjr  an  apt  and  judicious  use  of  such  imaginary  beings  as  those 
I  mentioned  in  my  last  paper. 



Diie  was  the  toBBing,  deep  tlie  gioims ;  Despair 
Tended  the  uick,  busy  ftom  coueh  to  couch ; 
And  over  them  triumphant  Denth  hia  dart 
Shook,  but  delayed  to  sltike,  though  oil  iuTokcd 
With  vows  09  their  chiel'good  and  final  hope. 
The  passion  which  liiewiae  ariaea  in  Adam  on  thia  occa- 
lion  ia  very  natural. 

Sight  so  deform  wha.t  heart  of  rock  could  long 
Dry-eyed  behold  ?  Adam  could  not,  but  wept, 
Though  not  of  womajT  bom  ;  compassion  quelled 
Hia  best  of  man,  and  gave  him  up  in  tears. 

The  diacouTSB  between  the  angel  and  Adam  which  follows, 
abounds  with  noble  morals. 

Ab  there  is  nothing  more  delightful  in  poetry  than  a  con- 
tnut  and  oppoeitioa  of  incidents,  the  author,  after  his  me- 
lancholy prospect  of  death  and  sickness,  raises  np  a  scene  of 
mirth,  love,  and  jollity.  The  secret  pleasure  that  steals  into 
Adam's  heart  aa  he  is  intent  upon  this  vision,  is  Im^ned 
with  great  delicacy.  I  must  not  omit  the  description  of  the 
loose  female  troop,  who  seduced  the  sons  of  God,  as  they 
■re  called  in  Scripture. 

For  that  fair  female  troop  Ihon  eawest  that  seemed 

Of  goddeaaea,  so  blithe,  so  smooth,  bo  gay, 

Yet  empty  of  all  good  wherein  consisls 

Woman's  domestic  honour  and  chief  praise  ; 

Bred  only  and  completed  to  the  taste 

Of  lustful  appetence,  to  sing,  to  dance. 

To  dress  and  tioul  Ibe  tongue,  and  roll  the  eye. 

To  these  that  sober  race  of  men,  whose  lives 

Religious  tilled  them  the  bods  of  God, 

Shall  yiold  up  all  their  viriue,  all  their  fame, 

Ignobly,  to  the  trains  and  to  ths  smiles 

Of  those  fair  atheialB— 
The  neit  vision  is  of  a  quite  contrary  nature,  and  filled 
with  the  horrors  of  war.     Adam  at  the  aight  of  it  melts  into 
tears,  aad  breaks  out  in  that  passionate  speech. 
—Oh  what  are  these  1 

Death's  ministers,  not  men ;  who  thua  deal  death 

Inhumanly,  and  multiply 

Ten  thoUBflndfold  the  ain  of  him  who  slew 

His  brother :  for  of  whom  such  massacre 

Make  they  but  uf  their  bretbion,  men  of  men  t 
Milton,  to  keep  up  an  aareeable  variety  in  liia"™\c(K8>,  ^S«et 
having  raised  in  the  mind  of  hia  reader  Vhe  ae^eTti.  '-^iMo  A 
tawonriucfiare  conformable  to  the  descriptVoTi  ot-wa.'r,"^* 
I  2 

1  to  those  softer  imi^ea  of  triumphs 

siou  of  lewdneas  and  luiuiy  which  ui 

As  it  is  viaible  that  the  poet  had  his  eye  upon  Ofid'a 
npcount  of  the  univereal  deluge,  the  reader  mav  observe  with 
how  much  judgment  he  has  avoided  everythirig  that  is  redund- 
ant or  puerile  in  the  Latin  poet.  "We  do  not  here  see  the 
wolf  swimming  among  the  sheep,  nor  any  of  those  wanton 
imaginationa  which  Seneca  found  fault  with,  as  unbecoming 
the  great  catastrophe  of  nature.  If  our  poet  has  imitated 
that  verse  in  which  Ovid  tella  us  that  there  was  nothing  but 
sea,  aud  that  this  sea  had  no  shore  to  it,  he  has  not  set  the 
thought  in  such  a  light  as  to  incur  the  censure  which  oritica 
have  passed  upon  it.  The  latter  part  of  that  verse  in  Ovid 
ia  idle  aud  superAuoua,  hut  just  and  beautiful  in  Milton. 


n  babebant, 


Sea  irilhout  ahore —  Milt 

In  Milton  the  former  part  of  the  description  does  not  ft 
stall  the  latter.  How  much  more  great  and  solemn  on 
occasion  is  that  which  follows  in  our  English  poet, 

^And  in  their  palaces 
Where  luxury  late  reigned,  sea-monsteiB  whelped 
And  Htabled— 
than  that  in  Ovid,  where  we  are  told  that  the  sea-calves  lay 
in  those  places  where  the  goats  were  used  to  browae  ?  The 
reader  may  find  several  other  parallel  passages  in  the  Iiatin 
and  English  description  of  the  deluge,  wherein  our  poet  has 
visibly  the  advantage.  The  sky's  being  over-charged  with 
cloudfl,  the  descending  of  the  rains,  the  rising  of  the  aeas,  and 
the  appearance  of  the  rainbow,  are  such  descriptions  as  every 
one  must  take  notice  of.  Tlie  circumstance  relating  to  Pa- 
radise ia  ao  finely  imagined  and  suitable  to  the  opiniona  of 
many  learned  authors,  that  I  cannot  forbear  giving  it  a  place 
in  this  paper. 

—Then  sliall  llii^  mount 
Of  Paradise  by  might  of  waves  ba  moved 
Out  of  liis  piace,  pushed  by  Ihe  horned  flood, 
WiUi  all  hia  verdure  Bpoiled,  and  trees  adrift 
Down  ihe  great  river  to  the  opening  giilf, 
And  there  take  root  an  island  salt  and  bare. 
The  liaunt  of  seals,  and  ores,  mi  aEa-ioa^a  liimi. 

The  trftnsition  which  tho  poet  makes  irora  the  vision  of  the 
iieluge  to  the  concern  it  occasioned  in  Adam,  is  exquisitely 
graceful,  and  copied  after  t'^irgil,  though  the  Ss&t  thought  it 
mtroduces  is  rather  io  the  spirit  of  Ovid, 

How  didst  Oiou  grieve  tlien,  Adam,  to  beliold 
The  end  of  all  thy  offspring,  end  ho  sad, 
Depopulation  ;  liiee  uiother  flood 
Of  tears  and  sotrow,  a  flood  thee  also  drowned. 
And  snok  thee  as  thy  sons  ;  till  gently  reared 
By  the  angel,  on  thy  feet  thou  slood^at  at  last, 
llioiigh  comfortless,  as  when  a  father  tuoimis 
His  children,  all  in  view  destroyed  at  once. 

I  have  been  the  more  particular  in  my  quotations  out  of 
the  eleventh  hook  of  Paradise  Lost,  because  it  is  not  genei-' 
»lly  reckoned  among  the  moat  shining  hooka  of  this  poem ; 
for  which  reason  the  reader  might  be  apt  to  overlook  thoae 
many  passages  in  it  which  deserve  our  admiration.  The 
eleventh  and  twelfth  are,  indeed,  built  upon  that  aingle  cir- 
tumatancB  of  the  removal  of  our  first  parents  from  Paradise  ; 
but  though  this  is  not  in  itself  so  great  a  Hubject  as  that  in 
t  of  the  foregoing  hooka,  it  is  extended  and  diversified 
L  so  many  surprising  incidents  and  pleasing  episodes,  that 
e  two  last  books  can  by  no  means  be  looked  upon  as  un- 
t^uftl  parts  of  this  divine  poem.  I  must  furtker  add,  that 
ad  not  MQton  represetted  our  first  parents  as  driven  out 
f  Paradise,  his  Fall  of  Man  would  not  have  been  complete, 
md  consequently  hia  action  would  have  been  imperfect. 

No.  369.    8AIUEDAT,  MAT  3. 

SegniilB  initant  animoa  demissa  per  auies, 

Quara  quB  sunt  oculia  sabjeeta  fidelibua —     HoH. 

Milton,  after  having  represented  in  vision  the  history  of 
lukind  to  the  first  ^eat  period  of  nature,  despatches  the 
.  mainhig  part  of  it  in  narration.  He  has  devised  a  very 
andsome  reason  for  the  angel's  proceeding  with  Adam  after 
'i  manner;  though  doubtless  the  true  reason  was  the 
iculty  which  the  poet  would  have  found  to  have  shadowed 
at  BO  mixed  and  complicated  a  story  in  visible  objects.  1 
ould  wish,  however,  that  the  author  had  done  \t,-«\v;fcKs«» 
dins  it  miybt  hare  cost  him.     To  give  m^  o^\man.  ^w^cj  ,X 

ADDiaora  works, 

think  that  the  eiUibitiiig  part  of  the  history  of  mankitid  in 
viaioo,  and  purt  in  narrative,  is  as  if  an  history  painter 
should  put  in  colours  one  half  of  his  subject,  and  write  down 
the  remaining  part  of  it.  If  Milton's  poem  flags  anvwhere, 
it  is  in  this  narration,  where  in  some  places  the  autnor  baa 
been  so  attentive  to  his  dirinity,  that  he  has  neglected  his 
poetry.  The  narration,  however,  rises  very  happily  on  several 
occasions,  where  the  subject  is  capable  of  poetical  omamentB, 
as  particularly  in  the  confusion  which  he  descrihea  among 
the  builders  of  Babel,  and  in  his  short  sketch  of  the  plagues 
of  Egypt.  The  storm  of  hail  and  fire,  with  the  darkness  tl  ' 
overspread  the  land  for  three  days,  are  described  with 
strength.  The  beautiful  passage  which  follows  is 
upon  noble  hints  in  Scripture. 

— Thus  with  len  wonnds 

The  riTer-dragon  tamed  a.t  lengtli  aubn^ta 

To  let  his  SDJaumers  dcpajrt,  uid  oft 

Humbles  his  stubborn  henri,  but  slill  aa  ic« 

More  hardened  siler  Ihaw  :  till  in  his  rege 

Pursuing  whom  he  lat«  dismissed,  llie  am 

Swallows  Um  with  his  host,  but  them  lets  pass 

As  on  dry  land  between  two  crystal  walls, 

Awed  by  tlie  rod  of  Moses,  so  to  stand 


The  river-dragon  is  an  allusion  to  the  Crocodile,  which  in- 
habits the  NUe,  from  whence  Egifpt  derives  her  plenty.  This 
aUuaion  ia  taken  from  that  sublune  passage  in  Ezekiel: 
"  Tims  saith  the  Lord  Gkid.Behold,  I  am  against  thee,  Pharaoh, 
king  of  Egypt,  the  great  dragon  that  lieth  in  the  midst  of 
his  rivers,  which  hath  said,  My  river  is  mine  own,  and  I  have 
made  it  for  myself"  Milton  has  given  us  another  ^^j^ 
noble  and  poetical  image  in  the  same  description,  whioh  aj" 
,    copied  almost  word  for  word  out  of  the  history  of  Moses. 

All  night  he  will  pursue,  but  Ms  approach 

Darkness  defends  between  till  morning  wateh  j 

Tlien  through  the  fiery  pillar  and  the  eloud 

God  loohing  forth,  will  troiAle  aU  hit  hoal. 

And  craiB  Iheir  cAariat-ahgelt :  when  by  command 

Moses  once  more  his  potent  rod  extends 

Over  the  sea ;  the  sea  bia  rod  obeys  ; 

Ou  their  embattled  ranks  the  waves  return 

And  overwhelm  their  war  : — 

As  the  principal  design  of  this  episode  was  to  give  Adi 
an  idea  of  the  holy  peraou  who  was  to  reinstate  1 



tupe  in  that  happmeaa  and  perfection  from  which  it  hud 
fflllmij  the  poet  conlJDea  himseli'  to  the  line  of  Abraham,  from 
whence  the  Messiah  waa  to  descend.  The  angel  is  deacrihed 
as  seeing  the  patriarch  actuaDy  travelhng  towards  the  Land 
of  Promise,  which  gives  a  particular  liveliness  to  this  part 
of  the  narration. 

I  see  him,  but  thou  unaal  not,  ^tli  what  faith 

He  leaves  his  gods,  hia  friends,  his  native  soil, 

Ur  of  Chaldiea,  passing  now  the  ford 

To  Harsn,  oiler  him  a  cumbroua  train 

Of  herds  and  flocks  and  nmnorous  aervittlde  : 

Not  wandering  poor,  hut  trusting  all  hia  wealth 

With  God  who  called  him,  in  a  land  unkuoifn. 


Gill  10  Ms  progeny  of  all  tliat  land. 
From  Hamath  northward  to  the  desert  south 
(ThingB  by  t2ieir  names  I  caJl,  though  yet  unnamed). 
Aa  Virgil's TisioQ  in  the  sixth  ^neidprohahlygave  Milton 
the  hint  of  this  whole  episode,  the  last  line  ia  a  translation 
of  that  verse  where  Anciiiaes  mentions  the  names  of  places, 
■which  they  were  to  bear  hereafter. 

The  poet  has  very  finely  represented  the  joy  and  gladness 
of  heart  which  riaea  in  Adam  upon  hia  discovery  of  the  Mes- 
aiah.  As  he  sees  hia  day  at  a  distance  through  types  and 
Bhadowa,  ho  rejoices  in  it ;  but  when  he  finds  the  redemption 
of  man  completed,  and  Paradise  again  renewed,  he  breaks 
forth  in  rapture  and  transport, 

Oh  Goodness  inllnite,  Goodnesa  immense  ! 
That  all  this  good  of  evil  shall  produce,  &c. 

I  have  hinted  in  my  sixth  paper  on  Milton,  that  an  heroic 
poem,  according  to  the  opinion  of  the  best  critics,  ought  to 
end  happily,  and  leave  the  mind  of  the  reader,  after  having 
conducted  it  through  many  doubts  and  fears,  sorrows  and 
disquietudes,  in  a  state  of  tranquillity  and  satisfaction.  Mil- 
ton's fable,  which  had  so  many  other  qualifications  to  recom- 
mend it,  was  deficient  in  this  partienlar.  It  is  here,  there-  ' 
fbre,  that  the  poet  has  shown  a  most  exquisite  judgment,  as 
wdl  aa  the  finest  invention,  by  finding  out  a  method  to  au^gl^ 
this  natural  defect  in  his  subject.  AccoTiia^-j  ^is" 
the  adFeraarf  of  mankind,  in  the  last  ■vic^W  'VjVvi^^viii  ^sw^ 


of  liira,  under  the  lowest  state  of  inortifieation  and  dis&to>'l 

S ointment.  We  see  him  chewing  ashes,  grovelling  in  tna  >i 
list.  Mid  loaden  with  supemiimerary  pains  and  torments. 
On  the  contrary,  our  two  first  parents  are  comforted  by 
dreams  and  viaiona,  cheered  with  promiBea  of  saivation,  and, 
in  a  manner,  raised  to  a  greater  happiness  than  that  which 
they  had  forfeited :  in  short,  Satan  is  repreBented  mieerable 
in  the  height  of  hia  triumphs,  and  Adam  triumphant  in  the 
height  of  misery. 

Milton's  poem  eoda  very  nobly.  The  last  speeeheB  of 
Adam  and  tae  archangel  are  full  of  moral  and  inatructiTB 
eentimenta.  The  sleep  that  fell  upon  Eve,  and  the  effects  itr  1 
had  in  quieting  the  oisordera  of  her  mind,  produces  the  J 
same  kind  of  consolation  in  the  reader,  who  cannot  pemB^ 
the  last  beautiful  speech  which  is  ascribed  to  the  mother  (^ 
mankind,  without  a  secret  pleasure  and  satisfaction. 

Whence  thou  relum'st  and  whither  wetit'st,  1  know  j 

For  God.  ia  lilBo  in  Bli>Bp  ;  md  dreama  advise, 

Wliich  he  hith  sent  propitious,  some  gteal  good 

Presapng,  since  with  sorrow  and  heart's  distress 

Wearied,  1  fell  asleep  :  but  now  lead  on  ; 

Iq  me  is  no  delay :  with  thee  to  go 

Is  to  slay  here  ;  without  thee  here  to  stay 

la  to  go  hence  unwilling ;  thou  to  me 

All  all  things  imder  heaven,  all  places  thou, 

Who  for  my  wilful  crime  art  banished  hence. 

This  further  coDsolation  yet  secure 

1  cany  hence ;  though  all  hy  cne  is  loat, 

Such  favour  I  unworthy  am  vouchsafed, 

By  me  the  promised  Seed  ahiill  all  restore. 

The  following  lines,  which  conclude  the  poem,  rise  in  s.l 
moat  glorious  blaze  of  poetical  images  and  ejpressions.  A 

HeUodorua  iu  hia  jEthiopics  acquaints  ua,  that  the  motion.  ■ 
of  the  gods  differs  from  that  of  mortis,  as  the  former  do  not,  ^ 
Btir  their  feet,  nor  proceed  step  by  step,  but  slide  over  tha 
Btirface  of  the  earth  by  an  uniform  swimming  of  the  whole 
body.  The  reader  may  observe  with  how  poetical  a  descrip- 
tion Milton  has  attributed  the  same  kind  of  motion  to  tni 
angels  who  were  to  take  p 

So  spake  our  mother  Eve,  a 

Well-pleased,  hut  answered 

The  archangel  stood,  and  ft 

To  tlieir  fixed  station,  all  in  bright  array 

Tie  ciierubim  descended;  on  the  ground 

THE   B 

Gliding  metcoraus,  us  eiening  miat. 
Risen  from  n.  river,  o'er  the  mariah  slides. 
And  gutbeis  ground  fast  at  the  Inbaurer's  heel 
Homeward  returning.     High  in  front  advanced 
The  brandished  sword  of  Ggd  before  Ihem  blazed, 

The  author  helped  hia  invention  ia  the  following  paHsage, 
by  reflecting  on  the  behaviour  of  the  angel,  who,  iu  holy 
writ,  has  the  conduct  of  Lot  and  hia  familj-.  The  circum- 
stancea  dravm  from  that  relation  are  very  gracefully  made 
ue  of  on  thia  occasion. 

In  either  hand  the  hastening  angel  caught 

Our  lingering  parenia,  and  to  tbo  eaatem  gate 

Led  them  direct ;  and  down  the  diff  as  fast 

To  the  subjected  plain;  then  diaappeEired. 

They  looking  back,  &c. 

The  scene  which  our  first  parents  are  eurprised  with  upon 
their  looking  back  on  Paradise,  wonderfully  strikeB  the 
reader's  imagination,  as  nothing  can  be  more  natural  than 
the  tears  they  shed  on  that  occasiou. 

Tiiey  looking  back,  all  Ibe  easlem  side  beheld 

Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat, 

Waved  over  by  Ibat  Haming  brand,  Iha  gite 

With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery  arms 

Some  natural  tears  ihey  dropped,  but  wiped  Ihem  soon. 

The  world  was  all  before  tliem,  where  to  choose 

Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their  guide. 
If  I  might  presume  to  offer  at  the  smallest  alteration  in 
this  divine  work,  I  should  think  the  poem  would  end  better 
with  the  passage  here  quoted,  than  with  the  two  versee 
which  follow. 

They  hand  in  hand,  with  wandering  alepa  and  alow. 

Through  Eden  took  Iheir  solitary  way. 
These  two  verses,  though  they  have  their  beauty,  fall  very 
much  below  the  foregoing  passage,  and  renew  in  the  mind  of 
the  reader  that  anguish  which  was  pretty  well  laid  by  that 

The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to  choose 

Their  place  of  rest,  and  Proyidence  their  guide. 

The  number  of  books  in  Paradise  Lost  is  equal  to  those  of 
the  /Fieiij  I  Our  author  in  his  first  edition  had  divided  his 
m  into  ten  books,  but  afterwards  broke  the  seveuth  and 
the  eleventh  each  of  them  iato  two  diffeieiA  \io(Jii.?,,\(^  "5 
'help  (S some swull  sdditiooa.  Ihia  second  (!aV\^\ctTv'«ii&'™ 

with  great  judgment,  as  any  one  may  Bee  who  will  be  at 
pains  of  eiamining  it.  It  wns  not  done  for  the  sake  of 
a  chimerical  beauty  as  that  of  resembling  Virgil  in  this  par- 
ticular, but  for  the  more  juat  and  regular  diapoaition  of  this 
great  work. 

Those  who  have  read  Bosau,  and  many  of  the  critica  who 
have  written  since  his  time,  will  not  pardon  me  if  I  do  not 
find  out  the  particular  moral  which  is  inculcated  in  Paradise 
Lost,  Though  I  can  by  no  means  think,  with  the  last-men- 
tioned French  author,  tnat  an  epic  writer  firat  of  all  pitches 
upon  a  certain  moral,  as  the  ground-work  and  foundation  of 
his  poem,  and  al'terwarda  finds  out  a  story  to  it :  I  am,  how- 
ever, of  opinion,  that  no  just  heroic  poem  ever  was  or  can  be 
made,  from  whence  one  great  moral  may  not  he  deduced. 
That  which  reigns  in  Milton  is  the  moat  universal  and  moat 
useful  that  can  be  imagined ;  it  ia  in  short  this,  "  that  obedi- 
ence to  the  will  of  God  makes  men  happy,  and  that  disobedi- 
ence makea  them  miserable."  This  is  visibly  the  moral  of 
the  principal  fable,  which  turns  upon  Adam  and  Eve,  who 
contmued  in  Paradise  while  they  kept  the  command  that 
was  given  them,  and  were  driven  out  of  it  as  soon  as  they 
had  transgressed.  This  is  liiewise  the  moral  of  the  princi- 
pal episode,  which  shows  us  how  an  innumerable  multitude 
of  angels  fell  from  their  state  of  bliss,  and  were  cast  into 
heU,  upon  their  disobedience.  Besides  this  great  moral, 
which  may  be  looked  upon  as  the  soul  of  the  fable,  there  arQ 
an  infinity  of  under  morals  which  are  to  be  drawn  fiwm  tb^l 
several  parts  of  the  poem,  and  which  makes  this  work  morlf;] 
useful  and  instructive  than  any  other  poem  in  any  language. 

Those  who  have  criticised  on  the  Odyssey,  the  Hiad,  and 
.^Ineid,  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  iix  the  number  of 
months  or  days  contained  in  the  action  of  each  of  those 
poems.  If  any  one  thinks  it  worth  his  while  to  examine  thia 
particular  in  Milton,  ho  will  find,  that  from  Adam's  first  ap- 
pearance in  the  fourth  book,  to  his  expulsion  from  Paradise 
in  the  twelfth,  the  author  reckons  ten  days.  As  for  that 
part  of  the  action  which  is  described  in  the  three  first  hoo^ 
as  it  does  not  pass  within  the  regions  of  nature,  I  have  be-' 
fore  observed  that  it  ia  not  subject  to  any  calculations  d 

I  have  now  finished  my  ohservations  on  a  work  which  doei 
an  honour  to  the  English  nation.     I  have  taken  a  genenl 


view  of  it  under  those  four  heads,  the  fahle,  the  characters, 
the  Hentimenta,  and  the  language,  and  made  each  of  them  the 
subject  of  a  particular  paper.  I  have,  in  the  neit  place, 
Bpoken  of  the  censurea  which  our  author  may  incur  under 
each  of  these  heads,  ■which  I  have  coniined  to  two  papers, 
though  I  might  faave  enlarged  the  number,  if  I  had  been  dia- 
poaeii  to  dwell  on  ao  ungrateful  a  subject.  I  believe,  how- 
ever, that  the  severest  reader  will  not  find  any  little  fault  in 
heroic  poetry,  which  this  author  baa  fallen  into,  that  does 
not  come  under  one  of  thoae  heads  among  which  I  have  dis- 
tributed his  several  blemiahes.  After  having  thus  treated  at 
large  of  Paradise  Lost,  I  could  not  think  it  sufficient  to  have 
celebrated  this  poem  in  the  whole,  without  descending  to 
particulars.  I  have  therefore  bestowed  a  paper  upon  each 
book,  and  endeavoured  not  only  to  prove  ttiat  the  poem  is 
beautifiil  in  general,  but  to  point  out  its  partjeulftr  beauties, 
aad  to  determine  wherein  tiiey  eonsist.  I  have  endeavoured 
to  show  how  some  passages  are  beautiful  by  being  sublime ; 
others,  by  being  soft ;  others,  by  being  natural :  which  of 
them  are  recommended  by  the  passion ;  which  by  the  moral ; 
which  by  the  sentiment ;  and  which  by  the  espresaion.  I 
have  likewise  endeavoured  to  show  how  the  genius  of  the 
poet  Bhines  by  a  happy  invention ;  a  distant  allusion ;  or  a 
judicious  imitation  :  now  he  has  copied  or  improved  Homer 
fte  Virgil,  and  raised  his  own  imaginations  by  the  use  which 
he  haa  made  of  aeveral  poetical  passages  in  Scripture.  1 
might  have  inserted  also  aeveral  passages  of  Tasso,  which 
I  our  author  has  imitated ;  but  as  I  do  not  look  upon  Tasso  to 
be  a  sufficient  voucher,  I  would  not  perplei  my  reader  with 
such  quotations,  as  might  do  more  honour  to  the  It^an  than 
.  English  poet.  In  short,  I  have  endeavoured  to  particularize 
those  innumerable  kinds  of  beauty,  which  it  we'ild  be  tedioua 
to  recapitulate,  but  which  are  essential  to  poetij,  and  which 
'  may  be  met  with  in  the  works  of  this  great  author.  Had  I 
thought,  at  my  first  engaging  in  this  design,  that  it  would 
liave  led  me  to  so  great  a  length,  1  believe  I  should  never 
have  entered  upon  it ;  but  the  kind  reception  which  it  has 
met  with  among  those  whose  judgments  I  have  a  value  for, 
gives  me  no  reason  to  repent  of  the  pains  I  have  been  at  in 
composing  them.'  i 

'  Compoiing  ificm.}    Tie  subatantive  to  "which,  lliem  le^era,  vi  ix^tei>9 

No.  269.     TUESDAY,  JAjN'^TJAET  9, 

SimplicilaB —  Ovi 

I  p'AS  this  morning  aurprised  with  3  great  knod    „ 

the  door,  wheo  my  midlady'a  daughter  came  up  to  me  and 

told  me  there  was  a  man  below  desired  to  epeak  with  me. 

tTpon  ray  asking  her  who  it  was,  she  tnld  me  it  was  a,  yery 

rare  elderly  person,  but  that  she  did  not  know  his  name, 
immediately  went  down  to  him,  and  found  him  to  he  the 
coachman  of  my  worthy  friend  Sir  Eager  de  Coverley.  He 
told  me  that  his  master  eame  to  town  last  night,  and 
would  be  glad  to  take  a  turn  with  me  io  Grays-Imi  walks. 
As  I  was  wondering  in  myself  what  had  brought  Sir  Eogep 
to  town,  not  having  lately  received  any  letter  from  him,  he 
told  me  that  his  maater  was  come  up  to  get  a  sight  of  Prince 
Eugene,  and  that  he  desired  I  would  immediately  meet  him. 

I  was  not  a  little  pleased  with  the  curiosity  of  the  old 
knight,  though  I  did  not  much  wonder  at  it,  having  heard 
him  say  him  more  than  once  in  private  discourae,  that  1 
looked  upon  Prince  Eugenio  (for  ao  the  knight  always  ci  ' 
him)  to  be  a  greater  man  than  Scanderhog. 

I  was  no  sooner  come  into  Gra^s-Inn  walks,  but  I  hea 
my  friend  upon  the  terrace  hemmmg  twice  or  thrice  to  MiS 
self  with  great  vigour,  for  he  lovea  to  clear  hia  pipes  h 
air,  (to  make  use  of  hia  own  phrase,)  and  is  not  a 
pleased  with  any  one  who  takes  notice  of  the  strength  whid 
he  still  exerts  in  hia  morning  bema. 

I  was  touched  with  a  secret  ioy  at  the  sight  of  the  g 
old  man,  who  before  he  saw  me 'was  engaged  in  eonversatii 
with  a  beggar-man  that  had  asked  an  alms  of  him.     I  con 
hear  my  friend  chide  him  for  not  finding  out  some  work; 
hut  at  the'same  time  saw  him  put  hia  hand  in  hia  pocket  and 
give  him  ais-penee. 

Our  aalutationa  were  very  liearty  on  both  sides,  consisting 
of  many  kind  shakes  of  the  hand,  and  several  affectionate 
looks  which  we  cast  upon  one  another.  After  which  the 
knight  told  me  my  good  friend  his  chaplain  was  very  well, 

giDod,  BJid  not  expressed.     This  inaccurnr,y  might  have  been  nvoided  by 
vying, — Ihg  liind  reception  itfiicft  ikese  pnpsrs  have  met  icilh,  &c. 


and  much  at  mj'  service,  and  that  the  Sunday  before  he  had 
nade^  a  most  incomparable  sermon  out  of  Doctor  Barrow. 
'  I  have  left,"  saya  he,  "  all  my  affairs  in  his  hands,  and  being 
gilling  to  lay  afl  obligation  upon  him,  have  deposited  with 
.lim  thirty  marks,  to  bo  distributed  among  his  poor  par* 

He  then  proceeded  to  acquaint  me  with  the  welfare  of 
flTill.  Wimble.  Upon  which  he  put  bis  hand  into  bis  fob, 
md  presented  me  in  bis  name  'witb  a  tobacco  stopper,  telling 
ne  that  Will,  had  been  busy  aU  the  beginning  of  the  winter 
ii  turning  great  quantities  of  them ;  aud  that  he  made  a 
present  of  one  to  every  gentlenjan  in  the  country  who  has 
^d  principles,  and  smokes.  He  added,  that  poor  "Will,  was 
^t  present  under  great  tribulation,  for  that  Tom  Touchy  had 
taken  the  law  of  bim  for  cutting  some  hasel  sticks  out  of  one 
e!  his  hedges. 

Among  other  pieces  of  news  which  the  knight  brought 
'rom  hie  country  seat,  he  informed  me  that  Moll  White  waa 
d ;  and  that  about  a  month  after  her  death  the  wind  waa 
0  very  high,  that  it  blew  down  the  end  of  one  of  his  bams, 
i'But  for  my  part,"  says  Sir  Roger,  "1  do  not  think  that  the 
Bid  woman  nad  any  hand  in  it." 

He  afierwards  fell  into  an  account  of  the  diversions  which 
3d  in  his  house  diiring  the  holidays,  for  Sir  Eager, 
ifier  the  laudable  custom  of  his  ancestors,  always  keeps  open 
louse  at  Christmas.  I  learned  from  him,  that  he  had  killed 
Oght  &,t  hogs  for  this  season,  that  he  had  dealt  about  his 
lunes  very  hberally  amongst  his  neighbours,  and  that  in 
larticukr  he  had  sent  a  string  of  hog's  puddings  with  a  pack 
E  cards  to  every  poor  family  in  the  parish.  "  I  have  often 
liought,"  says  Sir  Koger,  "it  happens  very  well  that  Christ- 
laa  should  fall  out  in  the  middle  of  the  winter.  It  is  the 
jost  dead,  uncomfortable  time  of  the  year,  when  the  poor 
leople  would  suffer  very  much  from  their  poverty  and  cold, 
rthey  had  not  good  cheer,  warm  fires,  and  Christmas  gam- 
ols  to  support  them.  I  love  to  rejoice  their  poor  hearts  at 
leason,  and  to  see  the  whole  vfllage  merry  in  my  great 
I  allow  a  double  quantity  of  malt  to  my  smidl  beer, 
nd  aet  it  a  running  for  twelve  days  to  every  one  that  calls 

for  it.  I  have  always  a  piece  of  cold  beef  and  a  u 
upon  the  table,  and  am  wonderfully  pleased  to  see  my  t 
ants  pasa  away  a  whole  evening  in  playing  their  innocent 
tricks,  and  smutting  one  another.  Our  triend  Will.  Wimble 
is  aa  merry  as  any  of  them,  and  shows  a  thousand  roguish 
tricks  upon  these  occasions." 

I  was  very  much  delighted  with  the  reflection  of  my  old 
friend,  which  carried  so  much  goodness  in  it.  He  then 
launched  out  into  the  praise  of  the  late  act  of  parliament  for 
securing  the  Church  ot  i&igland,  and  told  me  with  great  satis- 
faction, that  he  believed  it  already  began  to  take  effect ;  for 
that  a  rigid  dissenter,  who  cjianced  to  dine  at  his  house  on 
Christmas  day,  had  been  observed  to  eat  very  plentifully  of 
his  plum-porridge. 

Artep  having  despatched  all  our  country  matters,  Sir  fioger 
made  several  inq^uiries  concerning  the  club,  and  particularly 
of  his  old  antagonist  Sir  Andrew  Freeport.  He  asked  me, 
with  a  kind  of  smile,  whether  Sir  Andrew  bad  not  taken  the 
advantage  of  his  absence,  to  vent  among  them  some  of  hSs 
republican  doctrines  ;  but  soon  after  gathering  up  his  coun- 
tenance into  a  more  than  ordinary  seriousness,  "Tell  me 
truly,"  says  be,  "  don't  you  think  Sir  Andrew  had  a  hani-J 

in  the  pope's  procession" but  without  giving  me  time  i»M 

answer  him,  "  Well,  well,"  says  he,  "  I  know  you  are  a  waiyM 
man,  and  do  not  care  to  talk  of  public  matters."  -M 

The  knight  then  asked  me,  if  I  had  seen  Prince  EugenetV 
and  made  me  promise  to  get  him  a  stand  in  some  convenientfl 
place  where  he  might  have  a  full  sight  of  that  extraordinaiT  f 
infttt^  whose  presence  does  so  much  honour  to  the  Britin^- 1 
nation.     He  dwelt  very  long  on  the  praises  of  this  great  gft«  1 
neral,  and  1  found  that  since  I  was  with  him  in  the  country)  T 
he  had  drawn  many  observations  together  out  of  his  reading 
in  Baker's  Chronicle,  and  other  authors,  who  always  He  in 
his  hall  window,  which  very  much  redound  to  the  honour  of 
this  prince. 

Having  passed  away  the  gre-atest  part  of  the  morning  in 
hearing  the  knight's  reflectiona,  which  were  partly  private 
and  partly  pobtical,  he  asked  me  if  I  would  smoke  a  pipe 
with  nim  over  a  dish  of  coffee  at  Squire's.  As  I  love  the<ud 
man,  1  take  a  delight  in  complying  with  everything  that  ia 
agreeable  to  him,  and  accordingly  waited  on  him  to  the  coffee-  ' 
bouse,  where  his  venerable  figure  dre«  M.'^oa.Ma  XV*  e^«fc<(ES 


(he  whole  room.  He  had  no  eooner  seated  himeclf  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  high  tahle,  but  he  called  for  a,  clean  pipe,  a 
paper  of  tobacco,  a,  dish  of  coffee,  a  wai  candle,  and  the  Sup- 
plement, with  such  an  air  of  cheerfiilneBS  and  good  humour, 
that  oil  the  boys  in  the  coffee-room  (who  seemed  to  take 
pleaflure  in  servmg  him)  were  at  once  employed  on  his  sever- 
al errands,  insomuch  that  nobody  else  could  come  at  a  dish, 
of  tea,  till  the  knight  had  got  all  his  conyeniencies  about  him, 

No.  271.    THTJBSDAT,  JAMUAET  10. 

MiUe  tra^ens  varioB  adverso  sole  colores.    Vmo. 

I  BECEiTE  a  double  advantage  from  the  letters  of  my  cor- 
respondents :  first,  as  they  show  me  which  of  my  papers  are 
most  acceptable  to  them  ;  and  in  the"  next  pla«e,  as  they  fixm- 
ish  me  with  materials  for  new  speculations.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  I  do  not  make  use  of  the  letter  itself,  but  form  the 
hints  of  it  into  plans  of  my  own  invention ;  sometimes  I  take 
the  liberty  to  change  the  language  or  thought  into  my  own 
way  of  speaking  and  thinking,  and  always  (if  it  can  be  done 
without  prejudice  to  the  sense)  omit  the  many  compljmenta 
and  applauses  which  are  usually  bestowed  upon  me. 

Besides  the  two  advantages  above-mentioned,  which  I  re- 
ceive from  the  letters  that  are  sent  me,  they  give  me  an 
opportunity  of  lengthening  out  my  paper  by  the  skilful 
manBgement  of  the  subscribing  part  at  the  end  of  them, 
which  perhaps  does  not  a  little  conduce  to  the  ease,  both  of 
myself  and  reader. 

Some  will  have  it,  that  I  often  vrrite  to  myself^  and  am 
the  only  punctual  correspondent  I  have.  This  objection 
would  indeed  be  material,  were  the  letters  I  communicate  to 
the  public  stuffed  with  my  own  commendations,  and  if,  in- 
stead of  endeavouring  to  invert  or  instruct  my  readers,  I  ad- 
mired in  them  the  beauty  of  my  own  peribrmauces.  But  I 
shall  leave  these  wise  conjectures  to  their  own  imaginations, 
and  produce  the  three  foUowiug  letters  for  the  entertainment 
of  the  day. 


I  was  last  Thursday  in  an  assemti\'j  lA  'jaAiftfti-wVet* 
there  were  tliirieen  different  coloured  Vooift.    "^croi  ^■'^ftw* 

iDDiaOH'a   W0BK8. 

tutor  of  that  day  laying  upon  tlie  table,  tL. 
read  it  to  them,  which  I  did  with  a  very  c 
came  to  the  Greek  verse  at  the  end  of  it. 
was  a  little  Btartled  at  its  popping  upou  me  ao  unexpectedly; 
however,  I  covered  my  confusioD  aa  well  as  I  could,  and  after 
having  muttered  two  or  three  hard  words  to  myaeH  laughed 
heartily,  and  cried,  'A  very  good  jest,  ^th  I'  The  ladies 
desirea  me  to  explain  it  to  them ;  but  I  hegged  their  pardon 
for  that,  and  told  them,  that  if  it  had  been  proper  for  them 
to  hear,  they  may  be  sure  the  author  would  not  have  wrapt 
it  up  in  Greek.  I  then  let  drop  several  eipressions,  as  if 
there  was  something  in  it  that  was  not  fit  to  be  spoken  before 
a  company  of  ladies.  Upon  which  the  matron  of  the  aaaem- 
bly,  who  was  dreased  in  a  cherry-coloured  hood,  commended 
the  discretion  of  the  writer,  for  having  thrown  his  filthy 
thoughts  into  Greek,  which  was  likely  to  corrupt  but  few  of 
Ilia  readers.  At  the  same  time,  ahe  declared  herself  very 
well  pleased,  that  he  had  not  given  a  decisive  opinion  upon 
the  new-fashioned  hooda ;  '  For,  to  tell  you  truly,  (says  ahe,) 
I  was  afraid  he  would  have  made  ua  ashamed  to  show  our 
heada,'  Now,  air,  you  must  know,  since  this  unlucky  acci- 
dent happened  to  nie  in  a  company  of  ladies,  t 
passed  for  a  moat  ingenious  man,  I  have  cone 
is  very  well  versed  in  the  Greek  language,  and  he  oflsupea  ^ 
upon  hia  word,  that  your  late  quotation  means  no  more,  th^ 
that  '  mannera,  and  not  dreaa,  are  the  omamenta  of  a  womal 
If  this  cornea  to  the  knowledge  of  my  female  admirers,  I  si 
be  very  hard  put  to  it  to  bring  myself  off  handsomely. 

the  mean  while  I  give  you  this  at'connt,  that  you  may  t    

care  hereafter  not  to  betray  any  of  your  well-wishers  into  the 
like  inconveniencies.  It  is  in  the  number  of  these  that  I  beg 
leave  to  auhacrihe  myself, 

"  Tom  Teippit." 

"Me.  Spectator, 

Tour  readers  are  so  well  pleased  with  your  charactee' 
of  Sir  Eioger  de  Coverlcy,  that  there  appeared  a  sensible 
joy  in  every  coffee-house,  upon  hearing  the  old  knight  was 
come  to  town.  I  am  now  with  a  knot  of  his  admirers,  who 
make  it  their  joint  request  to  you,  that  vou  would  give  ub 
public  notice  of  the  window  or  balcony  where  the  knight  ia- 
teads  to  make  his  appearance.     He  haa  already  given  great 


THE   BfBOTAVOB.  289 

latisfection  to  severaJ  who  have  seen  him  at  Sqiiire's  Coffee- 
ioiise.    If  you  think  fit  to  place  your  short  face  at  Sir  Soger's 

■Jeft  elbow,  we  shall  take  the  hint,  and  gratefully  acknowledge 

Bk  great  a  fiwour. 

Tour  most  devoted  humble  servant, 

C.  D." 

Knowing  you  are  Terr  inquiBitiTe  after  everything 
lat  ifl  curious  in  nature,  I  will  waat  on  you,  if  you  please,  in 
e  dusk  of  the  evening,  with  my  show  upon  my  back,  which 
Bl  carry  aboiit  with  me  in  a  bos,  as  only  couaistiug  of  a  man, 
f »  woman,  and  an  horse.     The  two  first  are  married,  in  which 
state  the  little  cavalier  has  so  well  acquitted  himself,  that  his 
lady  is  with  child.  The  big-bellied  worn  ao,  and  her  husband, 
with  their  whimaical  palfrey,  are  so  very  light,  that  when  they 
■re  put  together  iuto  a  scale,  an  ori£nary  man  may  weign 
down  the  whole  family.     The  little  man  is  a  bidly  in  his  na- 
ture ;  but  when  he  grows  choleric,  I  confine  him  to  his  box 
till  Ins  wrath  is  over,  by  which  means  I  have  hitherto  pre- 
vented him  fiNim  doing  mischief.     His  horse  is  likewise  veiy 
vicious,  for  which  reason  I  am  forced  to  tie  him  close  to  his 
manger  with  a  packthread.    "The  woman  is  a  coquette :  she 
struts  as  much  as  it  is  possible  for  a  lady  of  two  foot  high, 
And  would  ruin  me  in  ailka,  were  not  the  quantity  that  goes 
to  a  laJ^e  pincushion  sufficient  to  make  her  a  gown  and 
petticoat.     She  told  me  the  other  day,  that  she  heard  the 
ladies  wore  coloured  hoods,  and  ordered  me  to  get  her  one  of 
,  the  finest  blue.     I  am  forced  to  comply  with  her  demands 
whilst  she  ia  in  her  present  condition,  being  very  willing  to 
tluvB  more  of  the  same  breed.     I  do  not  know  what  she 
■may  produce  me,  but  provided  it  be  a  show  1  shoU  be  very 
■'Veil  satisfied.     Such  novelties  should  not,  I  think,  be  con- 
l«ealed  from  the  British  Spectator  ;  for  which  reason,  I  hope 
rou  wUl  excuse  this  presumption  in, 

"  Your  most  dutifiil,  most  obedient, 

and  maoi  humble  servant. 

So.  275.    TUESDAY,  JANTJ.IET  15. 

— Tribus  Anlicyria  caput  insanabila —    Jut. 

I  WAS  yesterday  engaged  in  an  aaBCnibly  of  Tirtuoa 
where  one  of  them  produced  many  curious  observatit  __  , 
which  he  had  lately  made  in  the  anatomy  of  an  human  body. 
Another  of  the  company  communicated  to  ue  several  won- 
derful discoveries,  which  he  had  also  made  on  the  same  sub- 
ject, by  the  help  of  very  fine  glasses.  Thia  gave  birth  to  a 
great  variety  of  uncommon  remarks,  and  ftmiished  doBCOurse 
for  the  remaining  part  of  the  day. 

The  difiereut  opmiona  which  were  started  on  this  occasion, 
presented  to  my  imapnatioa  ho  many  new  ideas,  that  by 
mixing  with  those  which  were  already  there,  they  employed, 
my  fancy  all  the  last  night,  and  composed  a  very  wild,  ex- 
travagant dream. 

I  was  invited,  methought,  to  the  dissection  of  a  bean's 
head  and  of  a  coquette's  heart,  which  were  both  of  them  laid 
on  a  table  before  us.  An  imaginary  operator  opened  the 
first  with  a  great  deal  of  nicety,  which,  upon  a  cursory  and 
superficial  view,  appeared  lite  the  head  of  another  man ;  but 
upon  applying  our  glasseB  to  it,  we  made  a  very  odd  dia- 
eovery,  namely,  that  what  we  looked  upon  aa  brains,  were 
not  such  in  reality,  but  an  heap  of  strange  materials  wound 
up  in  that  ahape  and  texture,  and  packed  together  with  won- 
derful art  in  the  several  cavities  oi  the  skull,  For,  as  Ho- 
mer teUs  ua,  that  the  blood  of  the  goda  is  not  real  blood,  but 
only  Bometiiing  like  it ;  so  we  found  that  the  brain  of  a  beau 
is  not  a  real  brain,  but  only  something  like  it. 

The  pineal  gland,  which  many  of  our  modern  philoaophera 
suppose  to  be  the  seat  of  the  soul,  amelt  very  strong  of  es- 
sence aad  orange-flower  water,  and  was  encompasaed  with  a 
kind  of  homy  substance,  cut  into  a  thousand  Uttle  faces  or 
mirrors,  which  were  imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye ;  inso- 
much, that  the  soul,  if  there  had  been  any  here,  must  have 
been  always  taken  up  in  contemplating  her  own  beauties. 

We  observed  a  large  antrum  or  cavity  in  the  sinciput, 
that  was  filled  with  ribbons,  lace,  and  embroidery,  wrought 
together  in  a  moat  curious  piece  of  network,  the  parts  of 
which  were  likewise  imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye.     An-  j 
other  of  these  antrums  or  cavities  was  stuffed  with  invisibl 




let-doux,  love-lettera,  pricked  dances,  and  other  trumpery 
^the  same  nature.  In  another  we  found  a  kind  of  powder, 
which  Bet  the  whole  company  a  aneezing,  and  by  the  ecent 
diseovered  itself  to  be  right  Spaniah .  The  several  other  cells 
■were' stored  with  commodities  of  tbe  same  kind,  of  which  it 
would  be  tedious  to  give  the  reader  an  exact  inventory. 

There  was  a  large  cavity  on  each  side  of  the  head  which  I 
must  not  omit.  That  on  the  right  side  was  filled  with  fic- 
!tioaB,  flatteries,  and  falsehoods,  vows,  promisea,  and  protesta- 
"JioDS ;  that  on  the  left  with  oaths  ana  imprecations.  There 
led  out  a  duct  from  each  of  these  cells,  which  ran  into  the 
it  of  the  tongue,  where  both  joined  together,  and  passed 
'forward  in  one  common  duct  to  the  tip  of  it.  Wo  dia- 
'«overed  aeveral  little  roads  or  canals  running  from  the  ear 
[into  the  brwn,  aod  took  particular  care  to  trace  them  out 
.■through  their  aeveral  passages.  One  of  them  extended  itaelf 
to  a  bundle  of  sonnets  and  little  musical  instruments.  Others 
ended  in  several  hladdera,  which  were  filled  with  ■wind  or 
firoth.  But  the  large  canal  entered  into  a  great  cavity  of  the 
akuU,  from  whence  there  went  another  canal  into  the  tongue. 
Thia  great  cavity  was  filled  ■with  a  kind  of  apongy  aubatance, 
which  the  French  anatomists  call  galimatias ;  and  the  English, 

The  skins  of  the  forehead  were  extremely  tough  and  thick, 
and  what  very  much  surprised  us,  had  not  in  them  any  sin- 
gle blood-yeaael  that  we  were  able  to  diacover  either  with 
or  without  our  glaasea  ;  from  whence  we  concluded,  that  the 
party,  when  alive,  must  have  been  entirely  deprived  of  the 
fcculty  of  blushing. 

The  OJ  cribriforme  was  exceedingly  stufled,  and  in  some 
places  damaged  with  snuff.  We  could  not  but  take  notice 
—  particular  of  that  small  miiscle,  which  is  not  often  disco- 
red  in  dissections,  and  draws  the  nose  upwards,  when  it 
expresses  the  contempt  which  the  owner  of  it  has,  upon  see- 
ing anything  he  does  not  like,  or  hearing  anything  ne  does 
not  understand.  I  need  not  tell  my  learned  reader,  that  this 
is  that  muscle  which  performs  the  motion  so  often  mentioned 
hy.the  Latin  poets,  when  they  talk  of  a  man's  cocking  his 
iLOse,  or  playing  the  rhinoceros. 

We  did  not  find  anything  very  remarkable  in  the  eye, 
■Bving  only  that  the  musculi  amattirii,  or,  as  we  may  translate 
'■   into  English,  the  ogling  muscles,  were  very  much  tiva 

and  decayed  with  use ;  whereas,  on  the  contrary,  the  eleva* 
tor,  or  the  muscle  which  turns  the  eye  towards  beartn,  did 
not  appear  to  have  been  used  at  all. 

I  have  ouly  mentioned  in  this  dissection  auch  new  diB- 
coveries  as  we  were  able  to  make,  and  have  not  taken  any 
notice  of  those  parts  which  are  to  be  met  with  in  common 
heads.  Ab  for  the  skull,  the  face,  and  indeed  the  whole  out- 
ward shape  and  figure  of  the  head,  we  could  not  discover 
any  difference  from  what  we  observe  in  the  heads  of  other 
men.  We  were  informed,  that  the  person  to  whom  thia 
bead  belonged,  had  passed  for  a  man  above  five-and-thirty 
years  ;  during  which  time  he  eat  and  drank  like  other  people, 
dressed  well,  talked  loud,  laughed  frequently,  and  on  par- 
ticular occasiouB  had  acquitted  himself  toleraoly  at  a  ball  or 
an  assembly ;  to  which  one  of  the  company  added,  that  a 
certain  knot  of  ladiea  took  hint  for  a  wit.  He  was  cut  off  in 
the  flower  of  his  age  by  the  blow  of  a  paring-shovel,  having 
been  surpriaed  by  an  emineot  citizen  as  he  was  tendering 
some  civilitiea  to  hia  wife. 

When  we  bad  thoroughly  examined  thia  head  with  all 

apartments,  and  its  several  kinds  of  furniture,  we  put  Mo 
the  brain,  such  as  it  was,  into  its  proper  place,  and  laid  it 
aside  under  a  broad  piece  of  scarlet  cloth,  in  order  to  be  pre- 
pared, and  kept  in  a  great  repository  of  dissections ;  our 
operator  telling  us,  that  the  preparation  would  not  be  so 
difficult  as  that  of  another  brain,  for  that  he  had  observed 
several  of  the  little  pipes  and  tubes  which  ran  through  the 
brain  were  already  fflled  with  a  kind  of  mercurial  substance, 
which  he  looked  upon  to  be  true  quicksilver. 

He  applied  himself  in  the  neit  place  to  the  coquette's 
heart,  which  he  likewise  laid  open  with  great  dexterity. 
There  occurred  to  us  many  particularities  in  thia  dissection ; 
but  being  unwilling  to  burden  my  reader's  memory  toq 
.  much,  I  shall  reserve  this  subject  for  the  speculation  '  ~ 
other  day. 

No.  281.    TUESDAY,  JANUAET 


Fectoiibus  inhiaas  Epinntia  congulit  exia.    Vihu. 
Hattho  already  given  an  account  of  the  dissection  t 


leording  to  my  promiBe,  enter  upon  Vn 
loqiiette's  heart,  and  conimunicate  to  the 
public  euch  particularities  as  we  ohaerved  in  that  curioua 
piece  of  anatomy. 

I  should,  perhaps,  have  waived  this  uudertflking,  had  not 
I  been  put  in  mind  of  my  promise  by  several  of  my  unknown 
correspondents,  who  aro  very  importunate  with  me  to  make 
an  eiample  of  the  coquette,  as  1  have  already  done  of  the 
"beau.  It  ia,  therefore,  in  compliance  with  tne  request  of 
friends,  that  I  have  looked  over  the  minutes  of  my  former 
dream,  ia  order  to  give  the  public  en  eiact  relation  of  it, 
which  I  shall  enter  upon  without  further  preface. 

Our  operator,  before  he  engaged  in  this  visionary  dissec- 
tion, told  us,  that  there  was  nothing  in  his  art  more  difficult, 
than  to  lay  open  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  by  reason  of  the 
many  labyrinths  and  recesses  which  are  to  be  found  in  it, 
and  which  do  not  appear  in  the  heart  of  any  other  animal. 

He  desired  us  first  of  all  to  ohBerve  the  pericardium,  or 
outward  case  of  the  heart,  which  we  did  very  attentively ; 
and,  by  the  help  of  our  glaaaea,  diacemed  in  it  mOlions  of 
little  scars,  which  seemed  to  have  been  occasioned  by  the 
points  of  innumerable  darts  and  arrows,  that  from  time  to 
time  had  glanced  upon  the  outward  coat ;  though  he  could 
not  discover  the  smallest  orifice,  by  which  any  of  them  had 
entered  and  pierced  the  inward  substance. 

Every  smatterer  in  anatomy  knows,  that  this  pericardium, 
OT  case  of  the  heart,  contains  in  it  a  thin  reddish  hquor,  sup- 
posed to  be  bred  from  the  vapoura  which  exhale  out  of  the 
neart,  and  being  stopped  here,  are  condensed  into  this  watery 
BubBtance.  Upon  esamining  thia  liijuor,  we  found  that  it 
IukI  in  it  all  the  qualities  of  that  spirit  which  ia  made  use  of 
in  the  thermometer,  to  show  the  change  of  weather. 

Nor  muat  I  here  omit  an  experiment  one  of  the  company 
assures  us  he  himself  had  made  with  this  liquor,  whicii  be 
found  in  great  quantity  about  the  heart  of  a  coquette  whom 
he  bad  formerly  dissected.  He  affirmed  to  ua,  that  he  hod 
actually  enclosed  it  in  a  small  tube  made  after  the  manner 
of  a  weather-glass ;  but  that,  instead  of  acquainting  him  with 
tbe  variations  of  the  atmoapbere,  it  showed  him  the  qualities 
of  those  persona  who  entered  the  room  where  it  stood.  He 
affirmed  ^so,  that  it  rose  at  the  approach  of  a  '^l\a&&  ^ 
feathers,  an  embroidered  coat,  or  a.  poii  ol  Sroi^^  i^ssv 


and  that  it  fell  as  soon  as  an  ill-shaped  periwig,  a  clui 
pair  of  ahoeB,  or  an  unfashionable  coat  came  into  his  liouad 
nay,  he  proceeded  so  far  a§  to  UBSure  ub,  that,  upon  I 
laughing  aloud  when  he  atood  by  it,  the  liquor  mounted  yevj 
sensibly,  and  immediately  sunk  again  upon  hia  looking 
wriouH.  lu  ehort,  he  told  us,  that  he  knew  very  well  by 
this  invention  whenever  be  had  a  man  of  sense  or  a  coxcomb 

Having  cleared  away  the  pericardium,  or  the  case  and 
liquor  above-mentionea,  we  came  to  the  heart  itself.  The 
outward  surface  of  it  was  extremely  slippery,  and  the  mvero, 
or  point,  so  very  cold  withal,  that  iipon  endeavouring  to  take 
hold  of  it,  it  glided  through  the  fingers  like  a  smooth  piece 

The  fibres 
and  perplexed 

)  turned  and  twisted  in  a  more  intricate 
1  tliey  are  usually  found  in  other 
hearts ;  inaomuch,  that  the  whole  heart  was  wound  up  to- 
gether like  a  Gordian  knot,  and  must  have  had  very  irre- 
gular and  unequal  motions,  whUst  it  was  employed  in  ita 
vital  function. 

One  thing  we  thought  very  observable,  namely,  that,  upon 
examining  all  the  vessels  which  came  into  it,  or  issued  out  of 
it,  we  could  not  discover  any  communication  that  it  ha4,: 
with  the  tongue.  ' 

"We  could  not  but  take  notice  likewise,  that  several  oCi 
those  little  nerves  in  the  heart,  which  are  afiected  by  the; 
sentiments  of  love,  hatred,  and  other  pasHiona,  did  not  de. 
Bcend  to  this  before  us  from  the  brain,  but  from  the  musdet 
which  lie  about  the  eye. 

Upon  weighing  the  heart  in  my  hand,  I  found  it  to  be 
extremely  light,  and  consequently  very  hollow,  which  I  did 
not  wonder  at,  when,  upon  looking  into  the  inside  of  it,  I 
Baw  multitudes  of  cells  and  cavities  running  one  within  an- 
other, as  our  historians  describe  the  apartments  of  Bosa- 
moad's  Bower.  Several  of  these  little  hollows  were  atuflfed 
with  innumerable  sorts  of  trifles,  which  I  shall  forbear 
giving  any  particular  account  of,  and  shall,  therefore,  onlj 
take  notice  of  what  lay  first  and  uppermost,  which,  upon  oui 
unfolding  it,  and  applying  our  microscope  to  it,  appeared  to 
be  a  flame-coloured  hood. 

We  were  informed  that  the  lady  of  this  heart,  when  Vv 
received  the  addresses  of  several  who  made  love  to  her, 


did  not  only  give  each  of  them  encourngeroent,  but  made 
every  one  she  conversed  with  believe  that  she  regarded  him 
'vith  aa  eye  of  kindness ;  for  which  reason,  we  expected  to 
iave  seen  the  impreaBion  of  multitudes  of  i'aces  among  the 
several  plaits  ana  foldings  of  the  heart ;  hut,  to  our  great 
aurpriae,  not  a  single  print  of  thia  nature  discovered  itself, 
till  we  came  into  the  very  core  and  centre  of  it.  We  there 
■observed  a  little  figure,  which,  upon  applying  our  glasses  to 
it,  appeared  dreaaed  in  a  very  fantastic  manner.  The  more 
I  looted  upon  it,  the  more  I  thought  I  had  seen  the  face  be- 
finre,  but  could  not  poasibly  recollect  either  the  place  or 
:time ;  when  at  length  one  of  the  company,  who  had  examined 
this  figure  more  nicely  than  the  rest,  showed  ns  plainly  by 
the  make  of  its  face,  and  the  several  tuma  of  its  features, 
that  the  httle  idol  which  was  thus  lodged  in  the  very  middle 
of  the  heart,  was  the  deceaaed  heau,  whose  head  I  gave  some 
account  of  in  my  last  Tuesday's  paper. 

As  Boon  aa  we  had  finished  our  dissection,  we  resolved  to 
make  an  experiment  of  the  heart,  not  being  able  to  deter- 
mine among  ouraelves  the  nature  of  its  suhatance,  which 
differed  in  so  many  particulars  &om  that  of  the  heart  in 
other  females.  Accordingly  we  laid  in  into  a  pan  of  burn- 
ing coals,  when  we  observed  in  it  a  certain  aalamandrine 
quality,  that  made  it  capable  of  living  in  the  midat  of  fire 
ind  flame,  without  being  consumed,  or  so  much  as  singed. 

As  we  were  admiring  thia  etrange  phtenomenon,  and 
standing  round  the  heart  in  the  circle,  it  gave  a  most  pro- 
digious sigh,  or  rather  crack,  and  dispersed  all  at  once  in 
smoke  and  vapour.     Thia  imaginary  noise,  which  methought 

as  louder  than  the  burst  of  a  cannon,  produced  such  a 
iolent  shake  in  my  brain,  that  it  dissipated  the  fumea  of 
sleep,  and  left  me  in  wx  instant  broad  awake. 

Kg.  287.    TTJESDAT,  JANITAET  29. 

ToiE  voBf  ixoi'i'  "Tiiiia ; —  Menahd. 

T  XOOE  upon  it  as  a  peculiar  happiness,  that  were  I  to 
liOoBe  of  wliat  reli^on  I  would  be,  and  under  ^^lai.  ^iss««tti- 
lent  I  would  Ure,  I  should  moa.t  certamVy  ^nb  ftie  -^wSsst- 


ence  to  that  form  of  religion  and  government  which  M 
catabliBted  in  my  own  comatry.  In  this  point,  I  think,  I  exi, 
determined  by  reason  and  conviction  ;  but  if  I  ehall  be  told 
that  I  am  acted  by  prejudice,  I  am  sure  it  le  an  honest  preju- 
dice; it  tH  a  prejudice  that  ariees  from  theloveof  my  couqItt, 
and,  therefore,  such  an  one  as  I  will  alwaya  indulge.  I  have, 
in  Beveral  papers,  endeavoured  to  expreaa  my  duty  and  esteem 
for  the  Church  of  England,  and  design  this  as  an  essay  upon 
the  civil  part  of  our  conBtitution ;  having  often  entertained 
myself  with  reflections  oa  this  subject,  which  I  have  not 
met  with  in  other  writers. 

That  form  of  government  appears  to  me  the  most  n 
able,  which  ia  moat  conformable  to  the  equality  that  we  fi 
in  human  nature,  provided  it  be  consistent  with  public  m 
and  tranquillity,  Thia  is  what  may  properly  be  called  libe 
which  exempts  one  man  from  aubjection  to  another,  s 
aa  the  order  and  economy  of  government  will  permit. 

Liberty  should  reach  every  individual  of  a  people,  ae 
all  share  one  common  natiu'e :   if  it  only  spreads  an 
particular  branches,  there  had  better  be  none  at  all,  t 
such  a  liberty  only  aggravates  the  misfortune  of  those  v 
are  deprived  of  it,  by  setting  before  them  a  disaj 
anWect  of  comparison. 

This  liberty  la  best  preserved,  where  the  legialativ 
ia  lodged  in  several  persona,  especially  if  those  peraoua  m 
of  different  ranks  and  interests  ;  for  where  they  are  of  ti 
same  rank,  it  differs  but  little  from  a  despotical  govemmq 
in  a  single  person.  But  the  greatest  security  a  peo;  ' 
have  for  tlieir  liberty,  ia  when  the  legislative  power  it 
hands  of  persons  so  happily  distingmshed,  that  by  providi 
for  the  particular  interest  of  their  several  ranks,  they  a 
providing  for  the  whole  tody  of  the  people ;  or,  ' 
words,  when  there  ia  no  pari  of  the  people  that  I 
common  interest  with  at  least  one  part  of  the  legislatoi 

If  there  be  but  one  body  of  legislators,  it  ia  no  * 
than  a  tyranny ;  if  there  are  only  two,  there  will  ^ 
casting  voice,  and  one  of  them  must  at  length  be  swallowi 
up  by  disputes  and  contentions  that  will  necessarily  & 
between  them.  Four  would  have  the  same  inconveniei 
as  two,  and  a  greater  number  would  cause  too  much  c 
sion.  I  could  never  read  a.  passage  in  Polybius,  and  anotll 
in  Cicero,  to  thia  purpose,  without  a  secret  pleasure  in  ^ 


plying  it  to  the  Euglisli  conatitution,  which  it  auila  much 
better  than  the  Boman.  Both  these  great  authors  give 
the  pre-eminence  to  a  miit  goTemment,  consisting  of  three 
branches,  the  regal,  the  noble,  and  the  popular.  They  had 
doubtless  in  their  thoughts  the  constitution  of  the  Aomaa 
coiFiraon-wealth,  in  which  the  conaiil  repreaented  the  king; 
the  senate,  the  nobles ;  and  the  tribunes,  the  people.  This  - 
division  of  the  three  powers  in  the  Eoman  constitution  was 
by  no  means  so  distinct  and  natural,  as  it  is  in  the  English 
form  of  government.  Among  several  objections  that  might 
be  made  to  it,  I  think  the  chief  are  those  that  nffect  the 
consular  power,  which  had  only  the  ornaments  without  the 
force  of  the  regal  authority.  'Iheir  number  had  not  a  east- 
ing voice  in  it ;  for  which  reason,  if  one  did  not  chance  to 
be  employed  abroad,  while  the  other  sat  at  home,  the  public 
buHinesB  was  sometimes  at  a  stand,  while  the  consuls  pulled 
two  different  ways  in  it.  Besides,  I  do  not  iind  that  the  con- 
suls had  ever  a  negative  voice  in  the  passing  of  a  law,  or  de- 
cree of  senate ;  so  that,  indeed,  they  were  rather  the  chief 
body  of  the  nobility,  or  the  first  ministers  of  state,  than  a 
distmct  branch  of  the  sovereignty,  in  which  none  can  be 
looked  upon  as  a  part,  who  are  not  a  part  of  the  legislature. 
Had  the  consuls  been  invested  with  the  regal  authority  to  as 
great  a  degree  as  our  monarchs,  there  would  never  have  been 
any  occasions  for  a  dictatorship,  which  had  in  it  the  power  of 
the  three  orders,  and  ended  in  the  Bubversion  of  the  whole 

'  Such  an  history  as  that  of  Suetonius,  which  gives  us  a  suc- 
cession of  absolute  princes,  is  to  me  an  unanswerable  argu- 
ment against  despotic  power.  W  here  the  prince  is  a  man  of 
wisdom  and  virtue,  it  is  indeed  hft.ppy  for  has  people  that  he 
18  absolute ;  but  since  in  the  common  run  of  mankind,  for 
one  that  is  wise  and  good  you  find  ten  of  a  contrary  charac- 
ter, it  is  very  dangerous  for  a  nation  to  stand  to  its  chance, 
OP  to  have  its  public  happiness  or  misery  to  depend  on  the 
virtues  or  vices  of  a  single  person.  Look  into  the  historian 
I  have  mentioned,  or  into  any  series  of  absolute  princes,  how 
many  tyrants  must  you  read  through,  before  you  come  at  an 
emperor  that  is  supportable !  But  this  is  not  all ;  an  honest 
private  man  often  grows  cruel  and  abandoned,  when  converted 
t  mto  an  absolute  prince.  Give  a  man  power  o£  doing  what 
'  B  pleases  with  impunity,  you  extinguiaa  his  fear,  and  conse- 


quently  overhim  in  him  one  of  the  great  piUarH  of 
This  too  we  find  confirmed  by  matter  of  fact.     " 
hopeful  heirs-apparent  to  great  empires,  when  in  the  p 
eion  of  them,  have  become  euch  monsters  of  luat  and  cruelty 
as  are  a  reproach  to  human  nature ! 

Some  tell  ua  we  onght  to  make  our  governments  on  earth 
like  that  in  heaven,  which,  say  they,  is  altogether  monarchi- 
cal and  nnlimited.  Was  man  lite  his  Creator  in  goodness 
and  justice,  I  should  be  for  following  this  great  model ;  but 
where  goodness  and  justice  are  not  essential  to  the  ruler,  I 
would  by  no  means  put  myself  into  his  hands  to  be  disposed 
of  according  to  his  particular  will  and  pleasure. 

It  is  odd  to  consider  the  connexion  between  despotic 
government  and  barbarity,  and  how  the  making  of  one  person 
more  than  man,  makes  the  rest  less.  Above  nine  parts  of 
the  world  in  ten.  are  in  the  lowest  state  of  slavery,  and  con- 
sequently sunk  into  the  most  gross  and  brutal  ignorance. 
European  slavery  is  indeed  a  state  of  liberty,  if  compared 
with  that  which  prevails  in  the  other  three  divisions  of  the 
world;  and  therefore  it  is  no  wonder  that  those  who  grovel 
under  it  have  many  tracks  of  light  among  them,  of  which  the 
others  are  wholly  destitute. 

Eiches  and  plenty  are  the  natural  fruits  of  liberty,  and 
where  these  abound,  learning  and  all  the  liberal  arts  wdl  im- 
'/  lift  up  their  heads  aad  flourish.  As  a  man  must 
}  slavish  fears  and  apprehensions  hanging  iipon  his 
mind,  who  will  indulge  the  nights  of  fancy  or  speculation, 
and  push  his  researelies  into  all  the  abstruse  eoraers  of  truth ; 
BO  it  is  necessary  for  him  to  have  about  him  a  competency  of 
all  the  conveniences  of  life. 

The  first  thing  every  one  looks  after,  is  to  provide  himself 
with  necessaries.  This  point  will  engross  our  thoughts  till  it 
be  satisfled.  If  this  is  taken  care  of  to  our  hands,  we  look  out 
for  pleasures  and  amusements ;  and  among  a  great  number 
of  idle  people,  there  will  be  many  whose  pleasurea  will  lie  in 
reading  and  contemplation.  These  are  the  t"wo  great  sources 
of  knowledge,  and  as  men  ^row  wise  they  naturally  love  to 
communicate  their  discoveries  ;  and  others  seeing  the  hapi^  ^ 
ness  of  such  a  learned  life,  and  improving  by  their  conveM-l 
ation,  emulate,  imitate,  and  surpass  one  another,  till  anati<ai,| 

is  filled  with  races  of  wise  and  understanding  persons.     '. 

aud  pieatj  are  therefore  the  great  cherishers  of  knowledge*] 


snd  as  most  of  the  despotic  govemmenta  of  the  world  have 
neither  of  them,  they  are  naturally  over-run  with  iguoraace 
and  barbarity.  In  Europe,  indeed,  notwithstanding  several 
of  its  princes  are  absolute,  there  are  men  famous  for  know- 
ledge and  learning,  but  the  reason  is  because  the  subjects  aro 
many  of  them  rich  and  wealthy  ;  the  prince  not  thinking  fit 
to  exert  himself  in  his  fuU  tyranny  like  the  princes  of  the 
[Eastern  nationa,  lest  his  subjects  should  be  invited  to  new- 
mould  their  constitution,  having  so  many  prospects  of  liberty 
vithin  their  view.  But  in  all  despotic  governments,  thongn 
B  pai-tioular  prince  may  favour  arts  and  letters,  there  is  a 
natural  degeneracy  of  mankind,  as  you  may  obseire  from 
.Augustus' s  reign,  how  the  Eomans  lost  themselves  by  degrees 
till  they  fell  to  an  equality  with  the  most  barbarous  nations 
(that  surrounded  them.  Look  upon  Greece  under  ita  free 
atates,  and  you  would  think  its  inhabitants  lived  in  diiferent 
climates,  and  under  different  heavens,  irom  those  at  present; 
f  o  diiferent  are  the  geniuses  which  are  formed  under  Turkish 
ilUvery,  and  Grecian  liberty. 

Besides  poverty  and  want,  there  are  other  reasons  that 

lebase  the  minds  of  men  who  live  under  slavery,  though 
i  look  on  this  as  the  principal.  This  natural  tendency  of 
despotic  power  to  ignorance  and  barbarity,  though  not  in- 
sisted upon  by  others,  is,  I  think,  an  unanswerable  argu- 
ment agaioat  that  form  of  government,  as  it  shows  how  re- 

(ugnont  it  ia  to  the  good  of  mankind  and  the  perfection  of 
Q  naturo,  which  ought  to  be  the  great  ends  of  all  civil 

Nc.  289.    THURSDAY,  JANTJAitT  3L 

VitB  Bumma  brevis  Bpem  noB  vetat  inchoBre  longatit.  Hon. 
IfpoK  taking  my  seat  in  a  coffee-house  I  often  draw  the 
"  the  whole  room  upon  me,  when  in  the  hottest  seasons 
I,  rind  at  a  time  that  perlmpa  the  Dutch  mail  is  just 
le  iu,  they  hear  me  ask  tEe  coffee-man  for  his  last  week's 
of  mortality  :  I  find  that  I  have  been  sometimes  taken 
this  occasion  for  a  parish  sexton,  sometimes  for  an  under- 
rer,  and  sometimes  for  a  doctor  of  physic.  In  this,  how- 
Brer  I  am  guided  bj"  the  spirit  ot  a  ■pHioao'^'Uftt,  ^a  \  l^* 


.U>I>ISOI«'s   WOBEG. 

increase  sl^^l 

occaaion  from  bence  to  reflect  upon  tte  regular  increase  a 
diminution  of  mankind,  and  consider  the  aeveral  v, 
■waya  through  which  we  pass  from  life  to  eternity, 
very  well  pleased  with  these  weekly  admonitions,  that  bring 
into  my  mmd  such  thoughts  as  ought  to  be  the  daily  enter- 
tainment of  every  reasonable  creature ;  and  can  consider, 
with  pleasure  to  myself,  by  whiL'h  of  those  deliveranceB,  or, 
as  we  commonly  call  them,  distempers,  1  may  possibly  make 
my  escape  out  of  this  world  of  sorrows,  into  taat  condition 
of  eaistenee,  wherein  I  hope  to  be  happier  than  it  ia  possible 
for  me  at  present  to  conceive. 

But  this  is  not  aU  the  use  I  make  of  the  above-mentioned 
weekly  paper.  A  bill  of  mortality  ia  in  my  opinion  an  un- 
anaweraole  argument  for  a  Providence ;  how  can  we,  without 
supposing  ourselves  under  the  constant  care  of  a  Supreme 
Being,  give  any  possible  account  for '  that  nice  proportion 
which  we  find  in  every  great  city,  between  the  deatns  and 
births  of  ila  inhabitants,  and  between  the  number  of  males 
and  that  of  females,  who  are  brought  into  the  world  ?  what 
else  could  adjust  in  so  eiact  a  manner  the  recruits  of  every 
nation  to  its  losses,  and  divide  these  new  supplies  of  people 
into  such  equal  bodies  of  both  sexes  ?  Chance  could  never 
hold  the  balance  with  so  steady  a  hand.  Were  we  not 
counted  out  by  an  intelligent  auperviaor,  we  should  some- 
times be  over-charged  with  multitudes,  and  at  others  waste 
away  into  a  desert :  we  should  be  sometimes  &populuf  viro- 
rvm,  as  Floms  elegantly  espressea  it,  "  a  generation  of 
males,"  and  at  others  a  species  of  women.  "We  may  extend 
this  consideration  to  every  species  of  living  creatures,  and 
consider  the  whole  animal  world  ns  an  huge  army  made  up 
of  im  innumerable  corps,  if  I  may  use  that  term,  whose 
quotas  have  been  kept  entire  near  five  thousand  years,  in  so 
wonderful  a  manner,  that  there  is  not  probably  a  single 
species  lost  during  Ibis  long  tract  of  time.     Could  we  have 

Snerai  billfi  of  mortality  of  every  kind  of  animal,  or  particu- 
•  ones  of  every  species  in  each  continent  and  island,  I 
could  almost  say  in  every  wood,  marsh,  or  mountain,  what 
astonishing  instances  would  they  he  of  that  Providence 
which  watches  over  all  its  works  ? 

I  have  heard  of  a  great  man  in  the  Eomisb  Church,  who 

ml/or.]    We  say,  to  account  far. 

F>  on  aeeounl  of. 

upon  reading  those  words  la  the  fifth  chapter  of  Genesis, 
"  And  all  the  days  that  Adam  lived  were  nine  hundred  and 
thirty  years,  and  he  died ;  and  all  the  days  of  Seth  were 
nine  himdred  and  twelve  years,  and  he  died ;  and  all  the 
days  of  Methuselah  were  nine  hundred  and  sisty-nine  years, 
and  he  died;"  immediately  shut  himself  up  in  a  convent, 
and  retired  from  the  world,  as  not  thinking  anything  in.  this 
life  worth  pursuing,  which  had  not  regard  to  another. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  there  is  nothing  in  history  which  is  ao 
improving  to  the  reader,  as  those  accounts  wnicU  we  meet 
■with  of  the  deaths  of  eminent  persons,  and  of  their  behaviour 
in  that  dreadful  season.  I  may  also  add,  that  there  are  no 
parts  in  history  which  affect  and  please  the  reader  in  so 
sensible  a  manner.  The  reason  I  take  to  be  this,  because 
there  is  no  other  single  circumstance  in  the  story  of  any  per- 
wm,  which  can  possibly  be  the  cose  of  everj-  one  who  reads 
it,  A  battle  or  a  triumph  are  conjunctures  m  which  not  one 
man  in  a  million  is  likely  to  be  engaged ;  but  when  we  see 
a  person  at  the  point  of  death,  we  cannot  forbear  being  at- 
tentive to  everything  he  says  or  does,  because  we  are  sure, 
that  Borae  time  or  other  we  shall  otU'selves  be  in  the  same 
melancholy  circum stances.  The  general,  the  statesman,  or 
the  philosopher,  are  perhaps  characters  which  we  may  never 
act  m ;  but  the  dying  man  is  one  whom,  sooner  or  later,  we 
BhaJl  certainly  resemble. 

It  is,  pej-haps,  for  the  same  kind  of  reason  that  few  books, 
written  m  English,  have  been  ao  much  perused  as  Doctor 
Sherlock's  Discourse  upon  Death ;  though  at  the  same  time 
I  must  own,  that  he  who  has  not  perused  this  eicellent 
piece,  has  not  perhaps  read  one  of  the  strongest  persuaaivea 
to  a  religious  life  that  ever  was  written  in  any  language. 

The  consideration  with  which  I  shall  close  this  essay 
upon  Death,  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  most  beatcot 
moralB  that  has  been  recommended  to  mankind.  But  its 
being  ao  very  common,  and  so  universally  received,  though  ■ 
it  takes  awav  from  it  the  grace  of  novelty,  adds  very  much 
to  the  weight  of  it,  as  it  shows  that  it  falls  in  with  the 
general  sense  of  mankind.  In  short,  I  would  have  every 
one  consider,  that  he  is  in  this  life  nothing  more  than  a 
passenger,  and  that  he  is  not  to  set  up  bis  rest  here,  but 
Keep  an  attentive  eye  upon  that  state  at  being  to  which  he 
i^roachea  every  moment,  and  w^k  inW  "Vib  ioi  «s^^s£  %»a^ 

802  addisos'b  vobkb. 

and  permanent.     This  Bingle  considemtion  would  be 
fieient  to  extinguish  the  bittcrnesB  of  hatred,  the  thirst 
avarice,  and  the  cruelty  of  ambition. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  the  passage  of  Antiphanea, 
a  very  ancient  poet,  who  lived  near  an  hundred  years  befon 
Socrates,  which  represents  the  life  of  man  under  this  view, 
aa  I  have  here  translated  it  word  for  word.  "  Be  not  grieved," 
says  he,  "  above  measure,  for  thy  deeeaaed  friends.  They  are 
not  dead,  but  have  only  finished  that  journey  which  it  ia 
necessary  for  every  one  of  us  to  take :  we  ourselves  must  go 
to  that  great  place  of  reception  in  which  they  are  all  of  them 
assembled,  and  in  this  general  rendezvous  of  mankind,  live 
together  in  another  state  of  being." 

I  think  I  have,  in  a  former  paper,  taken  notice  of  those 
beautiful  metaphors  in  Scripture,  where  life  is  termed  a  pil- 
grimage, and  those  who  pass  through  it  are  called  Btraneers 
and  sojourners  upon  earth.  I  shall  conclude  this  with  s 
story,  which  I  have  somewhere  read  in  the  Travels  of  Sir 
John  Chardin;  that  gentleman,  after  having  told  ua,  that 
the  inns  which  receive  the  caravans  in  Persia,  and  the 
Eastern  countries,  are  called  by  the  name  of  caravansaries, 
gives  us  a,  relation  to  the  following  purpose. 

A  dervise,  travelling  through  Tartary,  being  arrived  at  the 
town  of  Balk,  went  into  the  king's  pdace  by  a  mistake,  as 
thinking  it  to  be  a  public  inn  or  caravansary.  Having 
looked  about  him  for  some  time  he  entered  into  a  long  gal- 
leiT,  where  he  laid  down  his  wallet,  and  spread  his  carpet,  in 
order  to  repose  himself  upon  it  after  the  manner  of  the 
Eastern  nations.  He  had  not  been  long  in  this  posture  be- 
fore he  was  discovered  by  some  of  the  guards,  who  asked  bim 
what  was  his  business  in  that  place  ?  The  dervise  told  them 
he  intended  to  take  up  his  nignt's  lodging  in  that  caravan- 
sary. The  guards  let  him  know,  in  a  very  angry  manner, 
that  the  house  he  was  in,  was  not  a  caravansary,  but  '" 
king's  pakce.  It  happened  that  the  king  himself  pa 
through  the  gallery  durmg  this  debate,  and  smiling  at 
mistake  of  the  dervise,  asked  him  how  he  could  possibly  bo 
80  dull  as  not  to  distinguish  a  palace  Irom  a  caravansary  ? 
"  Sir,  (says  the  dervise.)  give  me  leave  to  ask  your  Maiesty  a 
question  or  two.  Who  were  the  persons  that  lodged  va  this 
boijse  when  it  waa  first  built  ?"  The  Idng  replied,  his  i 
oeetora      "  And  who  (sKja  ftve  lerme^  ■«b&  yaa  ^t  \ 

t  the  J 

,t  thtf^ 

I^at  lodged  here?"  The  king  replied,  bis  &ther.  "And 
who  is  it  (says  the  derviae)  that  lodges  here  at  present  P" 
ffhe  kiD^  told  him,  that  it  was  he  himself.  "  And  who  (saya 
&e  dervise)  will  be  here  after  you?"  Tho  king  answered, 
tbe  young  prince,  his  bou.  "  Ah  sir,  (said  the  dervise,)  a 
liouee  that  changes  its  inhabitants  so  often,  and  receiveg 
•uch  a  perpetual  Buccesaion  of  guesta,  ia  not  a  palace,  but  a 

No.  293.     TUESDAY,  FEBErAEY  5. 

nSoiv  /dp  ilii^povouai  Bv/i/iax''  '^Xl-    Fhaq-  Vht.  Poet. 

Thb  famoua  Gratian,  in  his  little  hook  wherein  he  laya 
^own  maxims  for  a  man's  advancing  himaelf  at  court,  ad- 
vises his  reader  to  associate  himaelf  with  the  fortunate,  and 
to  shun  the  company  of  the  unfortunate ;  which,  notwith- 
Ataading  the  baseness  of  the  precept  to  an  honest  mind, 
may  have  something  useful  in  it  for  those  who  push  their 
jotereet  in  the  world.  It  ia  certain  a  great  part  of  what  we 
call  good  or  ill  fortune,  riaea  out  of  right  or  wTong  measures 
lUjd  schemes  of  life.  When  I  hear  a  man  complain  of  hia 
being  unfortunate  in  all  his  undertakings,  I  shrewdly  sus- 
ipect  him  for  a  very  weak  man  in  his  affairs.  In  conformity 
with  thia  way  of  thinking,  Cardioal  Richlieu  iised  to  say, 
that  unfortmuite  and  imprudent  were  but  two  words  for  the 
Bame  thing.  As  the  cardinal  himaelf  had  a  great  ahare  both 
of  prudence  and  good-fortune,  his  famoua  antagonist,  the 
Count  d'OlivareB,  was  disgraced  at  the  court  of  Madrid,  be- 
cause it  was  alleged  against  him  that  he  had  never  any  suc- 
cess in  his  undertakings.  This,  says  au  eminent  author,  was 
directly  accusing  him  of  imprudence. 

Cicero  recommended  Pompey  to  the  Eomans  for  their 

fBneral  upon  three  accounts,  as  he  was  a  man  of  courage,  con- 
act,  and  good-fortune.     It  was,  perhaps,  for  the  reason 
Above  mentioned,  namely,  that  a  aeries  of  good-fortune  sup- 
poeea  a  prudent  management  in  the  person  whom  it  befalls, 
that  not  only  SyUa  the  dictator,  but  several  of  the  Boman 
i|)eror8,  as  is  still  to  be  seen  upon  their  medals,  among 
—f  other  titles,  gave  themselvea  thai  of  Felbc,  or  Fortunate, 
heathens,  indeed,  seem  to  lutre  valxie^  &  'XMi.  \an^%  I'M 

804  aucisoit'b  wobkb. 

his  good-fortune  tlian  for  any  other  quality,  which  T  think 
13  very  natural  for  those  who  have  not  a  strong  belief  i~f  an- 
other world.  For  how  can  I  conceive  a  roan  crowned  with 
many  diatinguiabing  blessings,  that  has  not  some  estraor- 
diuary  fund  of  merit  and  perfection  ia  him,  which  lies  open 
to  the  Supreme  eye,  thougn  perhaps  it  is  not  discovered  by 
my  observation  P  "What  is  the  reason  Homer's  and  Virgil's 
heroes  do  not  form  a  resolution,  or  strike  a  blow,  without 
the  conduct  and  direction  of  some  deity  ?  Doubtless  because 
the  poets  esteemed  it  the  greatest  honour  to  be  favoured  by 
the  gods,  and  thought  the  best  way  of  praising  a  man  was, 
to  recount  those  favours  which  naturally  implied  an  extra- 
ordinary merit  in  the  person  on  whom  they  descended. 

Those  who  believe  a  future  state  of  rewards  and  punish- 
ments, act  very  absurdly,  if  they  form  their  opinions  of  a 
mam's  merit  irom  his  auccesses.  But  certainlv,  if  I  thought 
the  whole  circle  of  our  being  was  concluded  between  our 
births  and  deaths,  I  should  think  a  man's  good  fortune  the 
measure  and  standard  of  Lis  real  merit,  since  Providence 
would  have  no  opportunity  of  rewarding  hia  virtue  and  per- 
fections, but  ia  tiie  present  life.  A  virtuous  unbeliever,  who 
lies  under  the  pressure  of  misfortunes,  has  reason  to  cry 
out,'  as  they  say  Brutus  did  a  little  before  his  death,  "  O 
virtue,  I  have  worshipped  thee  as  a  substantial  good,  but  I 
find  thou  art  an  empty  name." 

But  to  return  to  our  first  point.  Though  prudence  does 
undoubtedly  in  a  great  measure  produce  our  good  or  ill  for- 
tune in  the  world,  it  is  certain  there  are  many  unforeseen 
accidents  and  occurrences,  which  very  often  prevent  the 
finest  schemes  that  can  he  laid  by  human  wisdom.  The  race 
is  not  always  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong.  No- 
thing less  than  infinite  wisdom  can  have  an  absolute  command 
over  fortune ;  the  highest  degree  of  it  which  man  can  possess, 
is  by  no  means  equal  to  fortuitous  events,  and  to  such  con- 
tingencies as  may  rise  in  the  prosecution  of  our  afiairs.  Nay, 
it  very  often  happens,  that  prudence,  which  has  always  in  it 
a  great  misture  of  caution,  hinders  a  man  from  being  so  for- 
tunate as  he  might  possibly  have  been  without  it.  A  person. 
who   only  aims  at  what  is  likely  to  succeed,  and  foUows 

'  Hai  reason  to  ery  o"*.]  How  so?  Oa  Mr.  Addison's  priocipU^  , 
Bralus  should  only  have  said,  ■'  I  find  by  my  ill  success,  llit  I  Ls^U 
nol  so  much  virlue  as  my  comveliWt" 

t^oBely  the  dictates  of  human  prtidenue,  never  meets  with 
those  great  and  unforeseen  auccessea,  which  are  often  the 
effect  of  a.  sanguine  temper,  or  a  more  happy  rashness ;  and 
this  perhaps  may  be  the  reason,  that,  according  to  the  com- 
mon observntion,  Fortune,  like  other  females,  dehghta  rather 
in  favouring  the  young  than  the  old. 

Upon  the  whole,  since  man  is  bo  ahort-Bighted  a  creature, 
and  the  accidents  which  may  happen  to  him  bo  various,  I 
cannot  but  be  of  Dr.  Tillotson's  opinion  in  another  case, 
that  were  there  any  doubt  of  a  Providence,  yet  it  certainly 
would  be  very  desirable  there  should  be  such  a  Being  of  in- 
finite wisdom  and  goodnesa,  on  whose  direction  we  might 
rely  in  the  conduct  of  human  life. 

It  is  a  great  presumption  to  ascribe  our  successes  to  our 
own  management,  and  not  to  esteem  ourselves  upon  any 
blessing,  rather  as  it  is  the  bounty  of  Heaven,  than  the  ac- 
quisition of  our  own  prudence.  I  am  very  well  pleased  with 
a  medal  which  was  struck  by  Queen  Elizabeth  a  little  after 
the  defeat  of  the  invincible  Armada,  to  perpetuate  the 
memory  of  that  extraordinary  event.  It  ia  well  known  how 
the  king  of  Spain,  and  others  who  were  enemies  of  that  great 
prJncesH,  to  derogate  from  her  glory,  aacribed  the  rmn  of 
their  fleet  rather  to  the  violence  ol  atorma  and  tempests, 
than  to  the  bravery  of  the  Enghab.  Queen  Elizabeth,  in- 
stead of  looking  upon  thia  as  a  diminution  of  her  honour, 
valued  herself  upon  such  a  signal  favoiir  of  Providence,  and 
accordingly  in  the  reverse  of  tlie  medal  above-mentioned,  has 
represented  a  fleet  beaten  by  a  tempest,  and  falling  foul 
upon  one  another,  with  that  religious  inscription,  Affiavit 
Deus  et  dissipantuT,  "  He  blew  with  his  wind,  and  they  were 

It  is  remarked  of  a  famous  Grecian  general,  whose  name 
I  cannot  at  present  recollect,  and  who  had  been  a  particular 
fayoui-ite  of  fortune,  that  upon  recounting  hia  victories  among 
his  Mends,  he  added  at  the  end  of  several  great  actions, 
"And  in  this  Fortune  had  no  share."  After  which  it  ia  ob- 
•erved  in  history,  that  he  never  prospered  in  anything  he 

As  arrogance,  and  a  conceitedness '  of  our  own  abHitieB, 
are  very  shocking  and  offensive  to  men  of  sense  and  virtue, 

'  Conceiterfness.]  Instead  of  this  word,  which  ia  novi  out  o£  'isfe,'^i« 
•kouM  say,  a  convtil,  or,  a  concnted.  opinion  of. 

■we  may  be  sure  they  are  liighly  displeaaing  to  that  Being 
nlio  delights  in  an  humble  mind,  and  bj  several  of  his  dis- 
penaiLtioDa  seems  purpose!;  to  show  us.  that  our  own  schemea 
or  prudynce  have  no  shave  in  our  advancemeotB. 

Since  on  this  subject  I  have  already  admitted  several  quo- 
tations which  have  occurred  to  my  raeiuory  upon  writing 
this  paper,  I  will  conclude  it  with  a  little  Persian  fable.  A 
drop  01  water  fell  out  of  a  cloud  into  the  sea,  aod  finding 
itself  lost  in  such  an  immensity  of  fluid  matter,  broke  out 
into  the  following  reflection :  "  Alas  I  what  an  inconsider- 
able creature  am  I  in  this  prodigious  ocean  of  waters ;  my 
existence  is  of  no  concern  to  the  universe,  I  am  reduced  to 
a  kind  of  nothiug,  and  am  less  than  the  least  of  the  works 
of  God."  It  so  happened,  that  an  oyster,  which  lay  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  tnaa  drop,  chanced  to  gape  and  swallow  it 
up  m  the  midst  of  this  bis  humble  soUloquv.  The  drop,  says 
the  fable,  lay  a  great  while  hardening  in  t^e  abell,  until  by 
degrees  it  was  ripened  into  a  pearl,  which  falling  into  t' 
hands  of  a  diver,  after  a  long  series  of  adventures,  ia  at  i 
sent  that  famous  jiearl  whicn  is  fixed  on  the  top  of  the  1 
siau  diadem. 

No.  293,    THUKSDAT,  FEBRUARY  7. 

n  tunted  of  my  j;t««I  cj 

mnd  aUiuMft    ABM>«a«  v<(lKr  «rtKlr&  it  m»  ibnvia  ai 
ufawnnlr  4AMrmt  aw   mm  iit  tb«  wAmmk  aamv^nt. 


^  iboure,  her  pln-moaey  haa  not  a  little  contributed. 
The  education  oi^  these  my  children,  who,  contrary  to  my 
expectation,  are  bom  to  me  every  year,  straitens  me  bo  much, 
that  I  have  begged  their  mother  to  free  me  from  the  obliga- 
tion of  the  above-mentioned  pin-money,  that  it  may  go  to- 
wards making  a  provision  for  her  family.  This  proposal 
mates  her  noble  blood  swell  in  her  veins,  iosomuch  that 
finding  me  a  little  tardy  in  her  last  quarter's  payment,  sh& 
tbreatens  me  every  day  to  arrest  me ;  and  proceeos  so  far  aa 
to  tell  me,  that  if  I  do  not  do  her  justice,  I  shall  die  in  a  jail. 
To  tbia  she  adds,  when  her  passion  will  let  her  argue  calmly, 
that  she  has  several  play-debts  on  her  hand,  which  must  he 
discharged  very  suddenly,  and  that  she  cannot  lose  her 
money  as  becomes  a  woman  of  her  fashion,  if  she  makes  me 
any  abatements  in  this  article.  I  hope,  air,  you  wOl  take  an 
ooeaBion  from  hence  to  give  your  opinion  upon  a  subject 
which  yon  have  not  yet  touched,  and  inform  ua  if  there  are 
any  precedents  for  tiiis  usage  among  our  ancestors;  or 
whether  you  find  any  mention  of  pin-money  in  Grotius, 
Pufiendorf,  or  any  other  of  the  civilians. 

"  1  am  ever  the  humblest  of  your  admirers, 

JosiAtt  Fkibbie,  Esq."       ' 

Ab  there  is  no  msn  living  who  is  a  more  professed  advocate 
for  the  fair  aei  than  royselti  so  there  is  none  tlrnt  would  be 
more  nnwiUing  to  invade  any  of  their  ancient  rights  and 

Sivileges  ;  but  aa  the  doctrine  of  pin-uiouey  ia  of  a  very  late 
te,  unknown  to  our  great-grandmothers,  and  not  yet  re- 
ceived by  many  of  our  modem  ladiea,  I  think  it  ia  for  the 
interest  of  botn  seres  to  keep  it  from  spreading. 

Mr.  Fribble  may  not,  perhaps,  be  much  mistaken  where 
he  intimatea,  that  the  supplying  a  man's  i#ife  with  pin- 
money,  is  furnishing  her  with  arms  against  himself,  and  in  a 
manner  becoming  accessory  to  his  own  dishonour.  We  may, 
indeed,  generaOy  observe,  that  in  proportion  as  a  woman  is 
more  or  less  beautiful,  and  her  husband  advanced  in  years, 
she  stands  in  need  of  a  greater  or  leas  number  of  pins,  and 
upon  a,  treaty  of  mamage  rises  or  fiills  in  her  demauda  ar- 
oordingly.  It  must  likewise  be  owued,  that  high  quality  in 
a  nustreas  does  very  much  inflame  this  article  in  the  marriage 

But  where  the  age  and  circumatancea  ol  "bofc  -^MSXea 

pretty  irnich  upon  a  level,  I  cannot  but  think  tlie  i 
ujKiD  pin-money  is  very  estruordinary ;  and  yet  we  I 
Hevenil  matches  broken  off  upon  this  very  head.  What 
would  a  foreigner,  or  one  who  is  a  stranger  to  this  prartice, 
think  of  a  lover  that  forsakes  hia  mistrese,  because  he  is  not 
willing  to  keep  her  in  pins ;  but  what  would  he  think  of  the 
roiHtress,  siioutd  he  be  informed  that  she  asks  five  or  six 
hundred  pounds  a,  year  for  this  use  ?  Should  a  man  unac- 
(luninted  with  our  customs  be  told  the  sums  which  are 
lulowed  in  Great  Britain,  under  the  title  of  pin-money,  what 
»  prodigious  consumption  of  pins  would  he  think  there  was 
in  this  island  !  "  A  pin  a  day  (says  our  frugal  proverb)  is 
a  gn)at  a  year;"  so  that  aceordiag  to  this  calculation,  my 
friend  Fribble's  wii'e  must  every  year  make  use  of  eigl ' 
millions  six  hundred  and  forty  thousand  new  pins. 

I  am  not  ignorant  that  our  British  ladies  allege 
ci)mpn.'heud  under  this  general  term  several  other  coi 
t'uci.'s  of  life ;  I  could  therefore  wish,  for  the  honour  of 
foimtry-women,  that  they  had  rather  called  it  needle-money, 
which  might  have  implied  something  of  good-housewifeir, 
and  not  have  given  the  malicious  world  occasion  to  think, 
that  dress  and  trifle  have  always  the  uppermost  place  ia  &< 
woman's  thoughts. 

I  know  several  of  my  fair  r«ader8  urge,  in  defence  of  tl 
practice,  that  it  is  but  a  necessary  provision  to  make 
themselves,  in  case  their  husband  proves  a  churl  or  &  misari 
ao  that  they  consider  this  allowance  as  a  kind  of  alimoi 
which  they  mav  lay  their  claim  to  without  actually  separat 
from  their  liusWids.    But  with  submission,  I  think  a  woi 
who  will  give  up  herself  to  a  man  in  marriage,  where  there 
is  the  least  room  for  such  nn  apprehension,  and  trust  her 
person  to  ene  whom  she  will  not  rely  on  for  the  common 
necessaries  of  lite,  may  verv  properly  be  accused   (in  the 
pbrttse  of  an  homely  proverb)  of  beuig  •■  penny  wise  and 
pound  foolish." 

It  is  obsened  of  oreiwautious  generals,  that  ther  never 
en^l^Aj^  in  a  battle  without  securing  a  retreat,  in  case  the 
event  should  wot  answer  their  espeetations ;  on  the  other 
hiuid.  the  (greatest  c^inquefow  have  burnt  their  sbips,  and 
broke  down  ihe  bridges  behind  them,  as  beiiu;  determioed. 
filhcr  to  sunxi'd  or  die  in  the  emtagement.  In  the 
at;iUii«r  1   should  wrv   muv-h  suspect  a  wotuaa 

roch  precautiona  for  her  retreat,  and  contrives  metLoda  how 
ihe  way  live  happily,  without  the  afl'ection  of  one  to  whom 
•\e  joins  heraelf  tor  life.     Separate  purses  between  man  and 

ife,  are,  in  my  opinion,  as  unnatiinil  as  separate  beds.     A 

Biriage  cannot  be  happy,  where  the  pleasures,  inclinationa, 
<nd  interests  of  both  parties  are  not  the  same.  There  is  no 
r  incitement  to  love  in  the  mind  of  man,  than  the 
»  of  a,  person's  depending  upon  him  for  her  ease  and 
lappiness ;  as  a  woman  uses  all  her  endeavours  to  please 
'  e  person  whom  she  looks  upon  as  her  honour,  her  comfort, 

id  her  support. 

Por  this  reason  I  am  not  very  much  surprised  at  the  be- 
'  a  rough  country  squire,  who,  being  not  a  little 
ihocked  at  the  proceeding  of  a  young  widow  that  would  not 
recede  from  her  demands  of  pin-money,  was  so  enraged  at 
ler  mercenary  temper,  that  he  told  her  in  great  wrath,  "  Aa 
anch  aa  she  thought  him  her  slave,  he  would  show  all  the 
world  he  did  not  care  a  pin  for  her."  Upon  which  he  flew 
nit  of  the  room,  and  never  saw  her  more. 

Socrates,  in  Plato's  Aleihiades,  says,  he  was  informed  by 
who  had  travelled  through  Persia,  that  aa  he  passed 
)Tei  a  tract  of  lands  and  inquired  what  the  name  of  the 
i,  tbey  told  him  it  was  the  queen's  girdle;  to  which 
le  adds,  that  another  wide  field  ■which  lay  by  it  was  called 

e  queen's  veil,  and  that  in  the  same  manner  there  was  a 
arge  portion  of  ground  set  aside  for  every  part  of  her 
Majesty's  dress.  These  lands  might  not  be  improperly 
called  the  Queen  of  Persia's  pin-money. 

I  remember  my  friend  Sir  Eoger,  who  I  dare  aay  never 
read  this  passage  in  Plato,  told  me  some  time  since,  that 
ipon  his  courting  the  perverse  widow,  (of  whom  I  have 
pven  an  account  in  former  papers,)  he  had  disposed  of  an 
inndred  acres  in  a  diamond-ring,  which  he  would  have  pre- 
i  her  with,  had  she  thought  fit  to  accept  it ;  and  that 
jpon  her  wedding-day  she  should  have  carried  on  her  head 
Ifty  of  the  tallest  oaks  upon  his  estate.  He  further  in- 
armed me  that  he  would  have  given  her  a  coal-pit  to  keep 

r  in  clean  linen,  that  he  would  have  allowed  her  the  pro- 

)  of  a  wind-mill  for  her  fans,  and  have  presented  her, 
1  three  years,  with  the  shearing  of  his  sheep  for  her 
bnder-pettieoats.  To  which  the  knight  always  adds,  that 
"        '  '  e  did  not  care  for  fine  clothes  himself,  there  should 

not  have  been  a  woman  in  the  country  better  dressed  thi 
my  lady  Coverley.  Sir  Hoger,  perhapa,  may  in  this,  as  w  " 
as  in  many  other  of  his  devicea,  appear  something  odd  a 
flingular,  but  if  the  humour  of  pm-money  prevaUa,  I  think 
it  would  be  very  proper  for  every  gentleman  of  an  estate 
to  mark  out  so  many  acres  of  it  under  the  title  of  The  Fiiu, 

No.  299.    TUESDAY,  I-EBEUARY  12. 

Tolla  IL 



t,  Cornelia,  maler 
ibus  atfKiB 
dole  Iriumpltoa. 

lem  victumquo  Syphacem 

n  loll  COirUiagiQO  migTo,. 
It  ia  observed,  that  a  man  improves  more  by  reading 
Btory  of  a  person  eminent  for  prudence  and  virtue,  thm  by 
tbe  finest  rules  and  precepts  of  morality.  In  the  same 
manner  a  repreaentation  of  those  calamities  and  misfortunes 
which  ft  weak  man  suffers  from  wrong  meiisures  aud  ill- 
concerted  schemes  of  life,  is  apt  to  make  a  deeper  impreaaion 
upon  our  minds,  than  the  wisest  maxims  and  instructions 
that  can  be  given  us  for  avoiding  the  like  follies  aud  iudie- 
cretions  in  our  own  private  conduct,  It  ia  for  this  reason 
that  I  lay  before  my  reader  the  following  letter,  and  leave 
it  with  him  to  make  hia  own  use  of  it,  without  adding  aii£ 
reflections  of  my  own  upon  the  subject-matter.  j 

"  Me,  Speota-toh, 

Having  carefully  perused  a  letter  sent  you  by  Joaiali' 
Fribble,  Esq.,  with  your  subaequeut  discourse  upon  pin- 
money,  I  do  presume  to  trouble  you  with  an  account  of  my 
own  ease,  which  I  look  upon  to  be  no  less  deplorable  thM 
that  of  Squire  Fribble.  I  am  a  person  of  no  ertraotion, 
having  begun  the  world  with  a  small  parcel  of  rusty  iron, 
and  was  for  some  years  commonly  known  by  the  name  of 
Jack  Anvil.  I  have  naturally  a  very  happy  genius  for  get- 
ting money,  insomuch  that  by  the  age  oi  five  and  twenty, 
I  had  scraped  together  four  thousand  two  hundred  pounds, 
five  sbniings,  and  a  few  odd  pence,  I  then  launched  out 
into  coaaideTable  business,  and  became  a  bold  trader  both 
bj-  spa  and  land,  which  in  a  few  years  raisied  me  a  voiy 



eonBiderable  fortime.  For  these  my  good  Herricea  I  was 
knighted  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  my  age,  and  lived  witt 
great  dignity  among  my  city  neighbours  by  the  name  of 
Sip  John  Anvil.  Being  in  my  temper  very  ambitious,  I  was 
now  bent  upon  mnking  a  family,  and  accordingly  reaolved 
that  m^  descendantB  should  have  a  dash  of  good  blood  in 
their  veins.  la  order  to  this  I  made  love  to  the  Lady  Mary 
Oddly,  an  indigent  young  woman  of  quality.  To  cut  short 
the  marriage  treaty,  I  tnrew  hep  a  charts  blanche,  as  our 
newspapers  call  it,  desiring  her  to  write  upon  it  her  own 
terms.  She  waa  very  concise  in  her  demands,  insisting  only 
that  the  disposal  of  my  fortune,  and  the  regulation  of  my 
family,  should  be  entirely  in  her  hands.  Her  father  and 
brothers  appeared  exceedmgly  averse  to  this  match,  and 
would  not  see  me  for  some  time  ;  but  at  present  are  so  well 
reconciled,  that  they  dine  with  me  almost  every  day,  and 
have  borrowed  considerable  sums  of  me ;  which  my  Lady 
Mary  very  often  twits  me  with,  when  she  would  show  me 
how  kind  her  relations  are  to  me.  She  had  no  portion,  aa  I 
"told  you  before,  but  what  she  wanted  in  fortune  she  makes 
-m  in  spirit.  She  at  first  changed  my  name  to  Sir  John 
^ivil,  and  at  present  writes  herself  Mary  Bnville.  I  have 
tad  some  chUdren  by  her,  whom  she  has  christened  with  the 
Bumamea  of  her  family,  in  order,  aa  ahe  tella  me,  to  wear  out 
"the  homeliness  of  theu"  parentage  by  the  father's  aide.  Our 
eldest  son  is  the  Honourable  Oddly  Eniille,  Esq.,  and  our 
eldeafc  daughter,  Harriot  EnvOle.  Upon  her  first  coming 
into  my  family,  ahe  turned  off  a  parcel  of  very  careful  serv- 
mts,  who  had.  been  long  with  me,  and  introduced  in  their 
Btead  a  couple  of  Elackamoora,  and  three  or  four  very  gen- 
teel fellowa  in  laced  liveries,  besides  her  French  woman,  who 
JB  perpetually  making  a  noiae  in  the  house  in  a  language 
wluch  nobody  understands,  except  my  Lady  Mary.  She  next 
oet  herself  to  reform  every  room  of  my  house,  having  glazed 
all  my  chimney-pieces  with  looking-glasa,  and  planted  every 
comer  with  such  heaps  of  china,  that  I  am  obbged  to  move 
aboDt  my  own  house  with  the  greatest  caution  and  circum- 
spection, for  feaj  of  hurting  some  of  our  brittle  furniture. 
■Ahe  maliea  an  illumination  once  a  weelt  with  wax-candles  in 
one  of  the  largest  rooms,  in  order,  as  she  phraaea  it,  to 
we  company.  At  which  time  ahe  always  desirea  me  to  be 
abroad,  or  to  confine  myself  to  the  eock-\oft,  "tWt  \  ■mwj  ■visA. 

dispTwe  her  among  ber  viaitanta  of  quality.  Her  footmai 
as  I  told  you  before,  are  such  beaus,  that  I  do  not  much  cu_ 
for  asking  them  questions ;  when  I  do,  they  answer  me  vn& 
ft  saucy  frown,  and  say  that  everything,  which  I  find  &ult 
with,  was  done  by  my  Lady  Mary's  order.  She  tells  me 
that  Bhe  intends  they  shall  wear  eworda  with  their  next 
liveries,  having  lately  observed  the  footmen  of  two  or  three 
persons  of  quality  hanging  behind  the  coach  with  sworda  by 
their  sides.  As  soon  aa  the  first  honey-mooQ  waa  over,  I 
represented  to  her  the  imreaaoiiahleness  of  those  daily  inno- 
vationa  which  she  made  in  my  family ;  but  abe  told  me  I 
was  no  longer  to  consider  myself  as  Sir  John  An%Tl,  but  aa 
her  huaband ;  and  added  with  a  frovrn,  that  I  did  not  seem 
to  know  who  ahe  waa.  I  was  surprised  to  be  treated  thus, 
after  such  famUiarities  aa  had  passed  between  us.  But  she 
has  since  given  me  to  know,  that  whatever  freedoma  she 
may  sometimes  indulge  me  in,  ahe  expects  in  general  to  be 
treated  with  the  respect  that  is  due  to  her  birth  and  quality. 
Our  children  have  been  trained  up  from  their  infency  with 
so  many  accounts  of  their  mother's  family,  that  they  know 
the  storiea  of  all  the  great  nien  and  women  it  had  produced-. 
Their  mother  tella  them,  that  such  an  one  commanded  in 
such  a  sea  engagement,  that  their  great-grand&ther  had  a 
horae'sbot  under  him  at  Edgehill,  that  their  uncle  was  at  the 
siege  of  Euda,  and  that  her  mother  danced  in  a  ball  at  court 
with  the  Duke  of  Monmouth ;  with  abundance  of  fiddle- 
faddle  of  the  same  nature.  I  was,  the  other  day,  a  little  out 
of  countenance  at  a  question  of  my  little  daughter  Harriot, 
who  asked  me,  with  a  great  deal  of  innocence,  why  I  never 
told  them  of  the  generals  and  admirals  that  had  been  in 
my  family.  Aa  for  my  eldest  son  Oddly,  he  has  been  so 
spirited  up  by  his  mother,  that  if  he  does  not  mend  his  man- 
ners I  ahaJl  go  near  to  disinherit  him.  He  drew  his  sword 
upon  me  before  he  was  nine  years  old,  and  told  me,  that  he 
expected  to  be  used  like  a  gentleman ;  upon  my  offering  to 
correct  him  for  his  insolence,  my  Lady  Mary  stept  in  be- 
tween us,  and  told  me,  that  1  ought  to  consider  there  waa 
Bome  difference  between  his  mother  and  mine.  She  is  peiv 
petually  finding  out  the  features  of  her  own  relations  in 
every  one  of  my  children,  though,  by  the  way,  I  have  a  little 
chub-faced  boy  as  like  me  as  he  can  stare,  if"^  1  durst  say  so; 
hut  what  moat  angers  me,  when  she  sees  me  playing  witli  . 


any  of  them  upon  my  knee,  she  has  bej^ed  me  more  than 
once  to  converse  with  the  children  as  little  as  possible,  that 
theymay  not  leam  any  of  my  awkward  tricks. 

"You  must  further  know,  since  I  am  opening  my  heart  to 
yon,  that  she  thinks  herself  my  superior  in  sense,  as  much 
as  ehe  is  in  quality,  and  therefore  treats  me  like  a  plain  well- 
meaxiing  man,  who  does  not  know  the  world.  She  dictates 
to  me  in  my  own  business,  seta  me  right  in  a  point  of  trade, 
and  if  I  disagree  with  her  about  any  of  my  ships  at  aea,  won- 
ders that  I  will  dispute  with  her,  when  I  know  very  well 
that  her  gre&t-grandfather  was  a  flag  of&cer. 

"To  complote  my  euflerings,  she  lias  teased  me  for  this 
quarter  of  a  year  last  past,  to  remove  into  one  of  the  Squares 
at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  promising,  for  my  encourage- 
jnent,  that  I  shall  have  as  good  a  cock-loft  as  any  gentle- 
man in  the  Square :  to  which  the  Honourable  Oddly  Envjlle, 
Saq.  always  adds,  like  a  jack-aroapes  as  he  is,  that  he  hopes 
it  Trill  be  as  near  the  coiirt  as  possible. 

"  In  short,  Mr.  Spectator,  I  am  so  much  out  of  my  na- 
tnral  element,  that  to  recover  my  old  way  of  life  I  would  be 
content  to  begin  the  world  again,  and  be  plain  Jack  Anvil ; 
ibot  alas !  I  am  in  for  life,  and  am  bound  to  subscribe  my- 
mdt,  with  great  sorrow  of  beart, 

"  Tour  humble  servant, 

John  Ektille,  Knt." 

No.  305.     TUESDAY,  FEBETJAET  19. 

Tempua  eget —  Vjnn. 

OuE  late  newspapers  being  fuH  of  the  project  now  on 
foot  in  the  court  of  Francfi,  for  establishing  a  political  aca- 
demy, and  I  myself  having  received  letters  from  several  vir- 
tuosos among'  my  foreign  correspondents,  which  give  some 
light  into  that  affair,  I  intend  to  make  it  the  subject  of  this 
day's  speculation.  A  general  account  of  this  project  may  be 
Oiet  with  in  the  Daily  Courant  of  last  Friday,  in  the  follow- 
ingwords,  translated  from  the  Gazette  of  Amsterdam. 

Paris,  February  12.  "  It  is  confirmed,  that  the  king  has 
veaolTed  to  establish  a  new  academy  Sot  ^Vi'o.ea,  ^il  -x\\vStL 

asdiboit'b  woses. 

the  Margin's  de  Torcv,  miniater  and  secretBry  of  state,  la  to 
be  protector.  Six  apademicians  are  to  be  chOBen,  endowed 
with  proper  talents,  for  beginning  to  form  this  academy,  into 
which  no  person  is  to  be  admitted  under  twenty-five  yean 
of  age !  they  must  likewise  have  each  an  estate  of  two  thon- 
a  year,  either  in  poaeesBion,  or  to  come  to  them 

by  inheritance.  The  king  will  allow  to  each  a  pension  of  a 
tnougand  livres.  They  are  likewise  to  have  able  masters  to 
teach  them  the  necesaory  scieacea,  and  to  instruct  them  m 
all  the  treaties  of  peace,  alliance,  and  others,  which  have 
been  made  in  aeveraJ  ages  past.  These  members  are  to  meet 
twice  e.  week  at  the  Louvre.  From  this  seminary  are  to  be 
chosen  aeerctaries  to  embasaies,  who  by  degrees  may  advance 
to  higher  employments." 

Cfmlinal  Richelieu's  politics  made  France  the  terror  of  Eu- 
rope. The  atatesmen  who  have  appeared  in  that  nation  of 
late  years,  have  on  the  cootrary  rendered  it  either  the  pity 
or  contempt  of  its  neighbours.  The  cardinal  erected  that 
famous  academy  which  has  carried  all  tlie  parts  of  polite 
learning  to  the  greatest  height.  His  chief  design  in  that 
institution  was  to  divert  the  men  of  genius  from  meddling 
with  politics,  a  proTince  in  which  he  did  not  care  to  have 
any  one  else  to  interfere  with  him.  On  the  contrary,  the 
Mart^uis  de  Torcy  seems  resolved  to  make  several  young 
men  m  Frajice  as  wise  as  himself,  and  is  therefore  taken  up 
at  present  in  establishing  a  nursery  of  stntesmen. 

Some  private  letters  add,  that  there  will  also  be  erected  a 
seminarv-  of  petticoat  politicians,  who  ai«  to  be  brought  uu 
at  tlie  tect  of  Madam  de  Maintenon.  and  to  be  despatched 
into  foreign  courts  upon  any  emergencies  of  state ;  but  wij 
the  nv-ws  of  this  last  project'  has  not  been  yet  confirmed,  sM 
dudl  take  no  further  notice  of  ir  ^M 

Several  of  my  readers  may  doubtless  remember,  that  upo^a 
the  conclusion  of  the  last  Var,  which  had  berai  cvried  oa  so 
successfully  b^  the  atetaj,  tb^r  gi»aals  weie  nany  of  them 
transformed  udo  anbttsadan;  but  the  conduct' of  ihoee 
who  hanp  MUBModed  in  the  pRoait  «ar.  h«s,  it  seeMos, 
brcMo^  so  little  hcoMxtr  and  admitace  to  then-  j^ivot  (m». 
aidi.  Aai  be  is  tvaohed  to  trw*  h»  tSux*  oo  kweer  in  tte 
huidi  of  thoM  nSitary  erntlnneu. 

The  i*5»)Ia*iota  rf'  this  new  acsdeny  nsr  kimA  deemttt 
oar  tttnitMiL.    Tfaa  students  are  to  haiv  ij-  —  — 

n  estate  of  two  thouaand  French  livrea  per  an- 
m,  which,  as  the  prescBt  exchange  runs,  ■B'ill  atnoimt  to 
tt  least  one  hundred  and  twenty-eii  pounds  English.  This, 
rith.  the  royal  allowance  of  a  thousand  livres,  ■will  enable 
hem  to  find  themselves  in  coflee  and  Hnuff ;  not  to  mention 
taewBpapera,  pen  and  ink,  wax  aud  wafers,  with  the  liku 
^leceBHaries  for  politicians. 

A  man  nmst  be  at  least  five  and  twenty  before  he  can  be 
nitiated  into  the  mysteries  of  this  academy,  though  there  is 
U)  question  but  many  grave  persona  of  a  mucli  more  ad- 
ffiUQced  age,  who  have  been  constant  readers  of  the  Paris 
Gazette,  will  he  glad  to  begin  the  world  anew,  and  enter 
ibemselves  upon  this  list  of  politicians. 
The  society  of  these  hopeful  young  gentlemen  is  to  he 
ider  the  direction  of  sis  professors,  who,  it  seems,  are  to  be 
ipeculstive  stateamen,  and  drawn  out  of  the  body  of  th& 
oral  academy.  These  sis  wise  masters,  according  to  my 
niTBte  letters,  are  to  have  the  following  parts  allotted  them. 
The  first  is  to  instruct  the  students  in  state  legerdemain, 
\a  huw  to  take  off  the  impression  of  a  seal,  to  spht  a  wafer, 
B  open  a  letter,  to  fold  it  up  again,  with  other  the  like  in- 
[eniouB  feats  of  deiterity  ana  art.  When  the  students  have 
iccomplished  themselves  in  this  part  of  their  profession,  they 
ire  to  De  delivered  into  the  hands  of  their  second  inatructor, 
who  is  a  kind  of  posture-master. 

This  artist  ia  to  teach  them  how  to  nod  judiciously,  to 
shrug  up  their  shoulders  in  a  dubious  case,  to  connive  with 
either  eye,  and  in  a  word,  the  whole  practice  of  political 

third  is  a  sort  of  language-master,  who  ia  to  instruct 
a.  the  style  proper  for  a  foreign  minister  in  his  ordi- 
jiMy  discourse.  And  to  the  end  that  this  college  of  states- 
en  may  he  thoroughly  practised  in  the  politicid  style,  they 
e  to  make  use  of  it  m  their  common  conversations,  before 
lihey  are  employed  either  in  foreign  or  domestic  aflairs.  If 
if  them  aska  another,  what  a  clock  it  ia,  the  other  is  to 
Br  him  indirectly,  and,  if  possible,  to  turn  off  the  ques- 
iion.  If  he  ia  desired  to  change  a  louis-d'or,  he  must  beg 
ime  to  consider  of  it.  K  it  be  inquired  of  him,  whether  the 
dug  ia  at  Versailles  or  Marly,  he  must  answer  in  a  whisper. 
if  £e  be  asked  the  news  of  the  last  Gaisettc,  or  the  subject 
if  apiocliunation,  he  is  to  reply,  that  he  basnot  ^fttie.wi.T!!.-. 

TW  JUrtittOTl'B   W0KK3. 

or  if  he  doea  not  care  for  explftining  himwlf  so  far,  he  n 
only  draw  hia  brow  up  iu  wrioklea,  or  elevate  the  3 

The  fourth  profeaaor  is  to  teach  the  wliole  art  of  political 
characters  ana  hieroglyphics ;  and  to  the  end  that  they  may 
he  perfect  also  in  thia  practice,  they  are  not  to  eend  a  note 
to  one  another  (though  it  be  but  to  borrow  a  Tacitus  or  a 
Machiavel)  which  is  not  written  in  cipher. 

Their  fifth  profeaBor,  it  is  thought,  will  he  chosen  out  of 
the  society  of  Jeauits,  and  ia  to  he  well  read  in  the  contro- 
versiea  of  probable  doctrines,  mental  reaervations,  and  the 
rights  of  princes.  Thia  learned  man  ia  to  instruct  them  in 
the  grammar,  syntai,  and  construing  part  of  treaty-iatin ; 
how  to  diatinguish  bet"ween  the  spirit  and  the  letter,  and 
likewise  demonstrate  bow  the  same  form  of  words  may  lay 
an  ohligation  upon  any  prince  in  Europe,  different  irora  that 
which  it  lays  upon  his  Most  Christian  Majesty.  He  is  liie- 
wiee  to  teach  tnem  the  art  of  finding  flawe,  loop-holea,  and 
erasiona,  in  the  most  solemn  compacts,  and  particularly  a 
great  rabbi:iical  secret,  revived  of  late  years  by  the  fraternity 
of  Jesuits,  namely,  that  contradictory  interpretations  of  the 
same  article  may  both  of  them  be  true  and  valid. 

When  our  atateamen  are  sufficiently  improved  by  these 
several  instructors,  they  are  to  receive  their  last  polishing 
from  one  who  ia  to  act  among  them  as  master  of  the  cere- 
moniea.  Thia  gentleman  is  to  give  them  lectures  upon  those 
important  points  of  the  elbow-chair  and  the  stair-head,  to 
instruct  them  in  the  different  situations  of  the  right-haiid, 
and  to  furnisli  them  with  bows  and  inclinations  of  nJl  aizea, 
measures,  and  proportions.  In  short,  thia  profeaaor  ia  to 
give  the  society  their  stiffening,  and  infuse  into  their  man- 
ners that  beautifiil  political  starch,  which  may  qualify  them 
for  levees,  conferences,  visits,  and  make  them  ahme  in  what 
vulgar  minds  are  apt  to  look  upon  aa  trifles. 

I  have  not  yet  heard  any  further  particulara,  which  are  to 
be  observed  in  this  society  of  unfledged  statesmen ;  but  I 
must  confess,  had  I  a  son  of  five  and  twenty,  that  should 
take  it  into  hia  head  at  that  age  to  set  up  for  a  politician,  I 
think  I  should  go  near  to  diainherit  him  for  a  blockhead. 
Besides,  I  should  be  apprehensive  lest  the  same  arts  which 
are  to  enable  him  to  negotiate  between  potentatea,  might  a 
Jjttle  infect  hia  ordinary  behaviour  between  man  and  i 

3  is  no  question  but  these  young  Machiavels  will,  in  a 
3  time,  turn  their  college  upside-down  with  plots  and 
tagems,  and  lay  as  many  schemes  to  circumvent  one 
t  mother  in  n  frog  or  a  salad,  as  they  may  hereafter  put  in 
Vpracttce  to  over-reach  a,  neighbouring  prince  or  state. 

"We  are  told  that  the  Spai-tans,  though  they  punished  theft 
n  their  young  men  when  it  was  discovered,  looked  upon  it 
IB  honourable  if  it  succeeded.  Provided  the  conveyance  was 
■  felean  and  unsuspected,  a  youth  might  afterwards  boast  of  it. 
*  This,  aay  the  historians,  was  to  keep  them  sharp,  and  to 
hinder  them  from  being  imposed  upon,  either  in  their  public 
or  private  negotiations.  Whether  any  such  relasationa  of 
morality,  such  little  Jkux  tTesprit,  ought  not  to  be  allowed 
in  this  intended  seminary  of  politicians,  I  shall  leave  to  the 
wisdom  of  their  founder. 

In  the  mean  time  we  have  fair  warning  given  us  by  this 

doughty  body  of  statesmen ;  and  as  Sylla  saw  many  Mari- 

ses  in  Osesar,  so  I  think  we  may  discover  many  Torcys  in 

lis  college  of  academicians.    Whatever  we  think  of  ourselves, 

am  afraid  neither  our  Smyrna  or  St.  James's  will  be  a  match 

te  it.     Our  coffee-houses  are,  indeed,  veiy  good  inatitutions, 

but  whether  or  no  these  our  British  schools  of  politics  may 

{bmish  out  as  able  envoys  and  secretaries  as  an  academy 

that  is  set  apart  for  that  purpose,  will  deserve  our  serious 

Consideration :  especially  if  we  remember  that  our  country  is 

piore  &mouB  for  producing  men  of  integrity  than  statesmen; 

tnd  that,  on  the  contrary,  French  truth  and  British  policy 

Bi&fces  a  conspicuous  figure  in  nolhiitg,  as  the  Earl  of  Boches- 

ter  has  very  well  observed  in  his  admirable  poem  upon  that 

barren  subject. 

No.  311.     TTJESDAT,  FEBEUAUT  26. 

Nee  Veneris  pharotris  macer  eat ;  nut  lampade  fervet ; 
lade  faces  ardent,  Tenlunt  it  dote  sagitts.  Juv. 

Me.  Spbotatoe, 

1  am  amaaed  that,  among  all  the  variety  of  characters 
.with  which  you  have  enriched  your  speculations,  you  have 
nerer  given  us  a  picture  of  those  audacious  young  fellows 
mong  lis,  who  commonly  go  by  the  name  of  fortune-stealers. 
"on  must  know,  sir,  I  am  one  who  live  in  &  ccnAmMai.  K^\jw- 

henHionof  th.Bsort  of  people,  that  lie  in.  wait,  day  and  n  ^ 

for  our  cliildren,  and  may  be  considered  as  a  kind  of  kidni^ 

pera  withia  the  law.     I  am  the  father  of  a  young  heirese, 

whom  I  begin  to  look  upon  a 

;eablc,  and  who  haa 

looked  upon  herself  as  such  for  above  tfiese  six  years, 
is  now  in  the  eighteenth  year  of  her  age.  The  fortune-huntera 
have  akeady  caet  their  eyes  upon  her,  and  take  care  to  plant 
themselves  in  her  ■view  whenever  she  appears  in  any  public 
aasenibly.  I  have  myself  caught  a  young  jack-a-napea,  with 
B  pair  of  silver  fringed  gloves,  in  the  very  tact.  Xou  must 
know,  sir,  I  have  kept  her  as  a  prisoner  of  state  ever  since 
alie  was  in  her  teens.  Her  chamber  windows  are  cross-barred, 
she  is  not  permitted  to  go  out  of  the  house  but  with  her 
keeper,  who  is  a  stayed  relation  of  my  own ;  I  have  likewise 
forbid  her  the  use  of  pen  and  ink  for  this  twelve  months  last 
past,  and  do  not  suffer  a  band-box  to  be  carried  into  herroom 
Defore  it  baa  been  searched.  Notwithstanding  these  pre- 
cautions, I  am  at  my  wits'  end  for  fear  of  any  sudden  surprise. 
There  were,  two  or  three  nights  ago,  some  fiddles  heard  in  the 
street,  which  lamafraidportendmeno  good  ;  not  to  mention 
a  tall  Irislunan,  that  has  been  walking  before  my  bouse  more 
than  once  this  winter.  My  kinswoman  likewise  informs  me, 
that  the  girl  has  talked  to  ber  twice  or  thrice  of  a  gentleman 
in  a  fair  wig,  and  that  she  loves  to  go  to  church  more  than 
over  she  did  in  her  Hfe.  8he  gave  me  the  slip  about  a  week 
ago,  upon  which  my  whole  house  was  in  alarm.  I  immediately 
despatched  a  hue  and  cry  after  her  to  the  'Change,  to  her 
mantua-maker,  and  to  the  young  ladies  that  visit  her ;  but 
after  above  an  hour's  search  she  returned  of  herself,  haTiiffi 
been  taking  a  walk,  as  she  told  me,  by  Eosamond's  pond.  I 
have  hereupon  turned  off  her  woman,  doubled  her  guards,  and 
given  new  instructions  to  my  relation,  who,  to  give  her  her  due, 
keeps  a  watchful  eye  over  all  her  motions.  This,  sir,  keeps 
me  in  a  perpetual  anxiety,  and  makes  me  very  often  watch 
when  my  daughter  sleeps,  as  I  am  afraid  she  is  even  with  me 
in  her  turn.  Now,  sir,  what  I  would  desire  of  you  is,  to 
represent  to  this  fluttering  tribe  of  young  fellows,  who  are 
for  making  their  fortunes  by  these  indirect  means,  that  steal- 
ing a  man's  daughter  for  the  sake  of  her  portion,  is  but  a 
kind  of  tolerated  robbery ;  and  that  they  make  but  a  poor 
amends  to  the  lather,  whom  they  plunder  after  this  manner, 
by  going  to  bed  with  his  child.     Dear  sir,  be  speedy  in  yon,    ■ 


thougbtB  on  this  Biiliject,  that,  if  possible,  they  may  appear 
'1>efore  the  diabaadiug  of  the  army. 

Your  moat  h  amble  servant, 

Tim.  "Watchweli.." 

ThenuBtocles,  the  great  Athenian  general,  being  asked 
■rbether  he  would  choose  to  marry  hia  daughter  to  an  indi- 
it  man  of  merit,  or  to  a  worthless  man  of  an  estate,  repUed, 
it  be  would  prefer  a  man  without  an  estate,  to  an  estate 
without  aman.  The  worst  of  it  ia  our  modem  tbrtune-huntera 
re  those  who  turn  their  beads  that  way,  becfluse  they  are 
pod  for  nothiog  else.  If  a  young  fellow  finds  he  can  make 
lotbing  of  Cook  and  Littleton,  he  provides  himself  with  a 
ladder  of  ropes,  and  by  that  means  very  often  enters  upon  the 

The  same  art  of  scaling  baa  likewiBe  been  practised  with 
>od  success  by  many  military  engineers.     Stratagems  of 
UB  nature  make  parts  and  industry  superfluous,  and  cut 
short  the  way  to  riches. 

Nor  is  vanity  a  leas  motive  than  idleneas  to  this  kind  of 
BieFoenary  pursuit.  A  fop  who  admires  bis  person  in  a  glass, 
•oon  enters  into  a  resolution  of  making  hia  fortune  by  it, 
sot  (^neationing  but  every  woman  that  falls  in  bis  way  vrill 
do  hun  as  much  justice  as  he  does  himself.  When  an  beiresa 
■eea  a  man  throwing  particular  graees  into  bis  ogle,  or  talk- 
ing loud  within  her  hearing,  she  ought  to  look  to  herself; 
but  if  withal  she  observes  a  pair  of  red-heels,  a  palch,  or  any 
other  particularity  in  liis  dress,  she  cannot  take  too  muen 
care  of  her  person.  These  are  baita  not  to  be  trifled  with, 
charms  that  have  done  a  world  of  execution,  and  made  their 
.■way  into  hearts  which  have  been  thought  impregnable.  The 
force  of  a  man  with  these  qnaliiicatioas  is  so  well  known, 
that  I  am  credibly  informed  there  are  several  female  under- 
takers about  the  Change,  who  upon  the  arrival  of  a  likely 
man  out  of  a  neigiibouring  kingdom,  will  furnish  him  witn 
proper  dress  from  head  to  foot,  to  be  paid  for  at  a  double 
price  on  the  day  of  marriage. 

"We  must,  however,  distinguiah  between  fortune-hunters 
and  fortune-atealers.  The  first  are  tliose  assiduous  gentle- 
men who  employ  their  whole  lives  in  the  chase,  without  ever 
coming  at  the  quarry.     SuftenuB  baa  combed,  a-ui  y*"'*^^*^ 




I  diniiBr.     Mem.    Too 

had  for  some  years  past  kept  ti  journal  of  hia  life.  Sir  i 
drew  allowed  us  one  week  of  it.  Sioue  the  occurreDces  i 
down  in  it  mark  out  such  a  I'oad  of  action  as  that  I  hove 
been  apeakiii|;  of,  I  shall  present  my  reader  with  a  faithful 
copy  of  it ;  alter  having  first  informed  him,  that  the  deceased 
peraon  had  in  his  youth  been  bred  to  trade,  but  fluding 
himself  uot  bo  well  turned  for  business,  he  had  for  sever^ 
years  last  past  lived  altogether  upon  a  moderate  annuity. 

MoKDAY,  eight  o'clock.     I  put  on  my  clothes  and  walked 
into  the  parlour.  "I 

Nine  o'chcA  ditto.  Tied  my  knee-atringa,  and  washed  tt 

Hours,  ten,  eleven,  and  twelve.  Smoked  three  pipes  4 
~  Eead  the  Supplement  and  Daily  Courant.    Thinf 

a  the  North.     Mr.  Kisby'a  opinion  thereupon. 
'clock  in  the  afternoon.     Chid  Salph  for  mialayi^ 
my  tobacco-box. 

Two  o'clock.     Sat 
plums,  and  no  suet, 

From  three  to  four.     Took  my  afternoon's  nap. 

Fromfourtosix.    Walked  iuto  the  fields.    Wind,  S.  S.  J 

From  six  to  ten.  At  the  club.  Mr.  Nisby's  opiniffl 
about  the  peace. 

Ten  o'clock.     Went  to  bed,  slept  sound. 

Tuesday,  bkiho  holibat,  eight  o'clock.     Bose  as  ii 

JVine  o'chek.  Washed  hands  and  faee,  shaved,  put  on  i 
douhie-aoled  shoes. 

Ten,  eleven,  twelve.     Took  a  walk  to  Islington. 

One.     Took  a  pot  of  Mother  Cob's  mild. 

Between  two  and  three.  Ketumed,  dined  on  a  kmickle 
veal  and  bacon.     Mem.  Sprouts  wanting. 

Three.     Nap  as  usual. 

From  four  to  six.  Cofiee-houae.  Bead  the  news.  A  d 
of  twist.     Grand  Vizier  strangled. 

From  six  to  ten.     At  the  club.     Mr.  Nisby'a  account  of  1 

Broken  sleep. 

WEDh-ESDAY.  Eight  o'clock.  Tongue  of  my  shoe-bi 
brokf.     Hands,  but  uot  face. 

Ifme.  Paid  off  the  butcher's  bill.  Mem.  To  he  allowed 
for  the  last  leg  of  mutton. 

Ten,  eleven.  At  the  coffee-house.  More  work  in  the 
Iforth,     Stranger  in  a  black  wig  asked  me  how  stocks  went. 

From  twelve  to  one.     "Walked  in  the  fields.     Wind  to  the 

From  one  to  two.     Smoked  a  pipe  and  a  half. 

Tko.     Dined  as  usual.     Stomach  good. 

Three.  Nap  broke  by  the  laJline  of  a  pewter  dish.  Mem. 
Cook-maid  in  love,  and  grown  cftrelesa. 

Trom  four  to  six.  At  the- cofiee-houae.  Advice  from 
Smyrna,  that  the  Grand  Vizier  was  first  of  all  atrangled,  and 
afterwards  beheaded. 

Sir  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Was  half  an  hour  in  the  club 
before  anybody  else  came.  Mr.  Nieby  of  opinion  that  the 
Grtmd  Yizier  ■was  not  strangled  the  sixth  instant. 

Ten  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Slept  without  waking  till 
nine  next  moniing. 

Thdbbdat,  nitie  o'clock.  Staid  within  till  two  o'clock  for 
Sir  Timothy,  who  did  not  bring  me  my  annuity  according 
to  his  promise. 

7W  in  the  afternoon.  Sat  down  to  dinner.  Loss  of  ape 
petite.     Small  beer  sour.     Beef  overeomed. 

Tkree.     Could  not  take  my  nap. 

Four  and  Jive.  Gave  Ealph  a  bos  on  the  ear.  Tamed 
off  my  oook-maid.  Sent  a  message  to  Sir  Timothy.  Mem. 
I  did  not  go  to  the  club  to-night.  Went  to  bed  at  nine 

Fkidat.  Passed  the  morning  in  meditation  upon  Su- 
Timothy,  who  was  with  me  a  quarter  before  twelve. 

Twelve  o'clock.  Bought  a  new  head  to  my  cane,  and  a 
tongue  to  my  buckle.     Drank  a  glass  of  purl  to  recover  ap- 

Two  and  three.     Dined  and  slept  well. 

From  four  to  six.  Went  to  the  coffee-house.  Met  Mr, 
Niaby  there.  Smoked  several  pipes.  Mr.  Nisby  of  opiniuu 
that  laced  coffee  is  bad  for  the  head. 

Six  o'clock.     At  the  club  as  atewBjd,     Sat  late, 

Tlwrfee  o'clock.  Went  to  bed,  dreamt  that  I  drank  ftwisiV 
beor  with  the  Grand  Vizier. 

SxTUBDAT.     Waked  at  eleven,  valked  in  the 
N.  E. 

Tvelve.     Caught  in  &  shower. 

Wne  ia  tht  afternoon.     Betumed  home,  and  dried  mjaelf. 

Two.     Mr.  Nisby  dined  with  me,    Firat  course,  marrow- 
bones ;  second,  oi-cheek,  with  a  bottle  of  Brooks  and  Hellier. 

Three  o'clock.     Overslept  inyself. 

Six.  AVent  to  the  club.  Like  to  have  fallen  into  a  gutter. 
Grand  Vizier  certainly  dead,  Ac. 

I  question  not  but  the  reader  will  be  surprised  to  find 
the  above-mentioned  journalist  taking  so  much  care  of  a  life 
that  was  tilled  with  such  inconsiderable  actions,  and  received 
so  very  small  improvements ;  and  yet,  if  we  look  into  the  be- 
haviour of  many  whom  wo  dailv  converse  with,  we  ahull  find 
that  moat  of  their  hours  ate  taken  up  in  those  three  import- 
ant articles  of  eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping,  I  do  not  sup- 
poBO  that  a  man  loses  his  time,  who  is  not  engaged  in  public 
nlRiira,  or  in  an  illustrious  course  of  action.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  believe  our  hours  may  very  often  be  more  prolitablv 
laid  out  in  such  transactions  as  mike  no  figure  in  the  world. 
tliBU  in  auch  OS  are  apt  to  draw  upon  them  the  attention  of 
laankind.  One  may  become  wiser  and  better  by  several 
methods  of  employing  oneself  in  secrecy  and  silence,  and  do 
what  is  lau<lablo  without  noise  or  ostentation.  I  would, 
howuvcr,  rocommeod  to  every  one  of  my  readers,  the  keep- 
ing a  journal  of  their  lives  tor  one  week,  and  setting  down 
punctually  their  whole  series  of  employments  during  that 
Huoce  of  time.  This  kind  of  soU'-eutnination  would  give 
ttw'm  A  trup  state  of  themscUT^  and  incline  them  to  con- 
sider acviuuAly  what  ihpy  •«>  tAt^M.  One  day  would  rectify 
(he  omissions  of  aiiotht^r.  and  m»kf  a  man  vreiKb  all  those 
iudiflvrvnt  kctiona,  which,  though  they  w  Msily  fot^tte 
must  vvrtaiuly  be  kcvuudImI  lor. 


No.  821    TrESDAV,  MAKCU  U. 

a^r  last,  t>ia  brai^  «•  W  wftmt  ^Mm.  vttk  wewa 


many  private  Uvea  cast  into  that  form.  I  have  the  Eake'a 
Journal,  the  Sot'e  Journal,  the  Whovemaflter's  Journal,  and 
among  seveJ-al  othera  aTerycurioua  piece,  entitled,  "The 
Journal  of  a  Mohock.'  By  these  inataucea  I  find  tbat  the 
intention  of  my  last  Tueaday'a  paper  has  heen  mistaken  by 
many  of  my  readers.  I  did  not  design  bo  much  to  eipoae 
;vice  as  idleness,  and  aimed  at  those  peraons  who  pass  away 
itheir  time  rather  in  trifles  and  impertinence,  than  in  crimes 
■and  immoralitieB.  Offences  of  this  latter  kind  are  not  to  be 
dallied  with,  or  treated  in  ao  ludieroua  a  manner.  In  short, 
Imy  journal  only  holds  up  folly  to  the  light,  and  ahowa  the 
'disagreeableneaa  of  auch  actions  as  are  indifl'erent  in  them- 
telves,  and  blameable  only  as  they  proceed  from  ci-eatures 
endowed  with  reason. 

My  following  correapoudent,  who  calk  herself  Clarinda, 
.IB  Hoch  a  journalist  as  I  require  :  she  seems  by  her  letter  to 
he  placed  in  a  modiah  state  of  indifference  between  vice  and 
lirtue,  and  to  be  auaceptible  of  either,  were  there  proper 
pains  taken  with  her.  Had  her  journal  been  filled  with  gal- 
lantries, or  such  occurreneea  as  had  shown  her  wholly 
divested  of  her  natural  innocence,  notwith standing  it  might 
Juve  been  more  pleasing  to  the  generality  of  readera,  I 
flhould  not  have  published  it ;  but  as  it  is  only  the  picture 
of  a  life  filled  with  a  fashionable  kind  of  gaiety  and  lazineaa, 
3  Bhall  set  down  five  days  of  it,  as  I  have  received  it  from  the 
%and  of  my  correapondent. 

Deab  Mb.  Spec  tat  OB, 

You  having  set  your  readers  an  exercise  in  one  of 
joup  last  week's  papers,  I  have  performed  mine  according  to 
your  orders,  and  nerewith  aend  it  you  enclosed.  You  must 
know,  Mr.  Spectator,  that  I  am  a  roaiden  lady  of  a  good  for- 
tone,  who  have  had  several  matches  offered  me  for  these  ten 
yeaxa  last  past,  and  have  at  present  warm  applicationa  made 
to  me  by  a  very  pretty  fellow.  As  I  am  at  ray  own  disposal, 
I  come  up  to  town  every  winter,  and  pass  my  time  in  it 
after  the  maimer  you  will  find  in  the  following  journal, 
which  1  began  to  write  upon  the  very  day  after  your  Specta- 
tor upon  that  aubject. 

ToEaDAT  night.  Could  not  go  to  sleep  till  one  in  tha 
tnoming  for  thiuiviDg'  of  my  journal. 

"Wednbhdat.     From  eight  to  ten.     Drank  two  diahi 
chocolate  iu  bed,  and  fell  aeleep  after  them. 

From  ten  to  eleven.  Eat  a,  alice  of  bread  and  butter,  drank 
n  dish  of  bohea,  read  the  Spectator. 

From  eleven  to  one.  At  my  toilette,  tried  a  new  head. 
liiaYe  orders  for  Veny  to  be  combed  and  washed.  Mem.  I 
luok  bent  in  blue. 

From  one  till  half  an   hour  after  ftoo.     Drove  to  1 
'Cliange.     Cheapened  a  couple  of  fans. 

Till  four.     At  dinner,     Mem.  Mr.  Froth  paased  hy 
his  new  liveries. 

From  four  to  six.  Dressed,  paid  a  ^^sit  to  old 
Blithe  and  her  sister,  hsTing  before  heard  they  were 
out  of  town  that  day. 

From  six  to  eleven.  At  basset.  Mem.  Kever  «et 
upon  the  ace  of  diamonds. 

TjiuBSDiT.  From  eleven  at  night  to  eight  in  the  » 
Dreamed  that  I  puiited  to  Mr.  Frolh. 

from  eight  to  ten.     Chocolate.     Bead  two  acts  in  Ani 
/ebe  8-bed. 

Tea-table.     Sent  to  borrow  1      , 

Bead  the  play-bills.     Beceived  a 

Mem.  Lodced  it  up  in  my  strong 

Fntm  ten  to  eleven. 
Faddle'a  Cuuid  for  Vei:_ 
letter  from  Sir,  Froth. ' 


Rut  t^  the  mommg.  Fontan^.  the  dre-woraan.  her  ae- 
<x<\»n  oi  Lady  Blithe's  wash.  Sroke  a  tooth  in  my  little 
lurtuiMvahrll  oomb.  Soni  Frank  lo  know  bow  mr  Lady 
H<vii<^  ivst^d  after  her  mooker's  )«tt[ung  oat  at  the  window. 
lAKikod  pale.  KiintMii^^  ttOi  Me  nr  gUes  is  not  true. 
OtmmoI  tv  Ihrve. 

nmm  lirml»/mr.     OiuMr  mM  Won  I  nt  down. 

JFVMH,rw- iw  «lm».  SkfcwraMBUtT.  9lr.  Froth's  opinion 
of  UilKM.  H»  ftMWMt  tf  tW  H^Mka.  llis  &ncv  for  a 
MB<««ntiMn.  tV-«u«iMl)wMl«rh»<M«4aK.  Old  Lmly 
ViMUko  ptvwum  HM>  W«v  WMMM  t«  c«t  m  havi.    Loet  five 

(IMMMtfM  C(VM». 

Mr  tVAtt'v  M««*^    ^\vmI  Mi  Y«vr 


From  ten  to  twelve.  In  conference  with  my  mantuapmater. 
Sorted  a  suit  of  ribands.     Broke  my  blue  cliina  cup. 

From  twelve  to  one.  Shut  myself  up  in  luy  chamber, 
practised  Lady  Betty  Modely'a  skuttle. 

One  in  the  afternoon.  Called  for  my  flowered  handker- 
chief. Worked  half  a  violet  leaf  in  it.  Eyes  ached  and 
1  out  of  order.  Threw  by  my  work,  and  read  over  the 
remaining  part  of  Aurenzehe. 

From  three  to  four.     Dined. 

From  four  to  twelve.  Chffliged  my  minu,  dressed,  went 
abroad,  and  played  at  crimp  till  midnight.  I'ound  Mrs. 
Spitely  at  home.  CouTersatiou :  Mrs.  Brillant's  necklace 
ais»  stones.  Old  liady  Loveday  going  to  he  married  to  a 
young  fellow  that  is  not  worth  a  groat.  Miss  Prue  gone 
into  the  country.  Tom  Townley  has  red  hair.  Mem.  Mrs. 
Spitely  whiapered  in  my  ear  that  she  had  something  to  tell 
me  about  Mr.  Froth,  I  am  sure  it  is  not  true. 

Between  twelve  and  one.  Dreamed  that  Mi.  Froth  lay  at 
my  feet,  and  called  me  Indamora. 

Satpbdat.  Eoae  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Sat 
down  to  my  toilette. 

From  eight  to  nine.  Shifted  a  patch  for  half  an  hour  be- 
fbre  I  could  determine  it.    Fixed  it  ahore  my  left  eyebrow. 

From  nine  to  twelve.     Drank  my  tea,  and  dressed. 

From  twelve  to  two.  At  chapel.  A  great  deal  of  good 
company.  Mem.  The  third  air  in  the  new  opera.  Lady 
Blithe  dreaaed  frightfuUv. 

From  l/iree  to  four.  t)ined.  Mra.  Kitty  called  upon  tiie 
to  go  to  the  opera  before  I  was  risen  from  table. 

From  dinner 'to  sir.  Drank  tea.  Tm-ned  off  a  footman 
for  being  rude  to  Veny. 

Six  o'eloeh.  Went  to  the  opera.  I  did  not  see  Mr.  Froth 
till  the  beginning  of  the  second  act.  Mr.  FMth  talked  to  a 
gentleman  in  a  black  wig.  Bowed  to  a  lady  in  the  front  bos. 
Mr.  Froth  and  his  friend  clapped  Nicolini  ia  the  third  act. 
Mr.  Froth  cried  out  Ancora.  Mr.  Froth  led  me  to  my  chair. 
I  think  he  squeezed  my  hand. 

Eleven  at  night.  Went  to  bed.  Melancholy  dreamn.  M» 
thought  Nicolini  said  he  was  Mr.  Froth. 

ScKDAT.     Id  disposed. 

829  abstsoit'b  itobsb. 

MoiTOAT.  Eight  o'clock.  Waked  W  Mim  Kitty.  Aureidj 
zebu  lay  upon  the  ehair  by  me.  Etty  repeated  withouM 
book  the  eight  beat  lines  in  the  play.  Weut  in  our  mobs  to 
the  dumb  man,  according  to  appointment.  Told  me  that  my 
lover's  name  began  with  a  G-.  Mem.  The  ooujurep  waa 
witiiiu  a  letter  of  Mr.  Froth's  name,  &c. 

"  Upon  looking  back  into  this  my  Journal,  I  find  that  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  I  paas  my  time  well  or  illj 
and  indeed  never  thought  of  considering  how  I  did  it,  befora 
I  perused  your  speculation  upon  that  subject.  I  scarce  find 
a  Biugle  action  In  these  five  dnys  that  1  can  thoroughly  ap- 
prove of,  except  the  working  upon  the  violet  leaf,  which  I 
am  rwolved  to  finish  the  first  day  I  am  at  leisure.  As  for 
Mr.  i'roth  and  Teny,  I  did  not  think  they  took  up  so  much 
of  my  time  and  thoughts,  as  I  find  they  do  upon  my  joornal. 
TKo  latter  of  whom  I  will  turn  oiF  if  you  insist  upon  it ;  and 
if  Mr.  Froth  does  not  bring  matters  to  a  conclusion  y~— *■ 
suddenly,  1  will  not  let  my  fife  ran  away  in  a  dream. 
''  Tour  humble  servant, 


To  rpsume  one  of  the  morals  of  mj-  first  paper,  and  to  o 
tirm  CUrinda  in  her  good  inclinations.  I  would  have  1 
iMHisidfr  what  a  ptvttv  figure  she  ^^ould  make  among  p 
terity,  •r/rm  the  histarr  of  tier  whole  life  published  like  tin 
flw  days  of  it.  1  shall  ranolude  mj  p>per  with  an  epitaph 
wriltMi  by  an  unrcrtiun  author  on  Sir  Phihp  Sidn^'a  uster, 
a  Iwly  who  wrius  to  haw  bi'tm  of  a  temper  very  mnch  dif- 
tVrv>ul  iViun  that  itf  Olannda.  The  last  thought  of  it  is  bo 
v»rjr  nobK  that  1  ,lart'  sav  nir  reader  will  pudttn  the  qntM 

Om  iW  CUuaUu  DowtfM  at  Pnoaosi. 

CMwMaik  tki*  NMiU*  ham 
U«a  ilw  *a]l#Mt  of  an  ncM^ 



It  Nun 

10,  devenit  et  Ancus.     Hob. 

Mt  friend  Sir  Koger  de  Coverley  told  me  the  other  night, 
that  he  had  heen  reading  my  paper  upon  "Westminster 
Abbey,  in  which,  aaya  he,  there  are  a  great  many  ingenious 
fanciee.  He  told  me  at  the  same  time,  that  he  observed 
I  had  promifiod  another  paper  upon  the  tomha,  aud  that  he 
should  he  glad  to  go  and  see  them  with  me,  not  having 
visited  them  since  he  had  read  historv.  I  could  not  at 
first  imagine  how  this  cfune  into  the  knight's  head,  till  I 
recollected  that  he'had  heen  very  busy  all  last  summer  upon 
Baker'n  Chronicle,  wliich  he  has  quoted  several  times  in  his 
dispute  with  Sir  Andrew  Freeport,  since  hie  last  coming  to 
town.  Accordingly  I  called  upon  him  the  next  morning, 
that  we  might  go  together  to  the  Abbey. 

I  found  the  knight  under  his  butler's  hands,  who  always 
shaves  Iiim.  He  was  no  sooner  dressed,  than  he  called  for  a 
glasa  of  the  widow  Truehy's  water,  which  he  told  me  he  always 
drank  before  be  went  abroad.  He  recommended  to  me  a  dram 
of  it  at  the  same  time,  with  so  much  heartiness,  that  I  cotild 
not  forbear  drinking  it.  As  soon  as  I  had  got  it  down,  I 
found  it  very  luipalatable  ;  upon  which  the  kuight  obaerring 
that  1  had  made  several  wry  faces,  told  me  that  he  knew  I 
should  not  like  it  at  first,  but  that  it  was  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  against  the  stone  or  gravel. 

I  could  have  wished,  indeed,  that  he  had  a«q\ininted  me 
with  the  virtues  of  it  sooner ;  hut  it  was  too  late  to  uoitinlain, 
and  I  knew  what  he  had  done  was  out  of  good-will.  Sir  Eogei- 
told  me  fiirtber,  that  he  looked  upon  it  to  be  very  good  for  a 
man  whilst  he  staid  in  town,  to  keep  off  infection,  and  that 
he  got  together  a  quantity  of  it  upon  the  first  news  of  the 
sicmess  being  at  Dantzic ;  when  of  a  sudden  turning  short 
to  one  of  his  servants,  who  stood  behind  liim,  he  bid  him  call 
a  hackney  coach,  and  take  care  it  was  an  elderly  man  that 
drove  it. 

He  then  resumed  his  discourse  upon  Mrs.  Truehy's  water, 
telling  me  that  the  widow  Trueby  was  one  who  did  more  good 
than  all  the  doctors  and  apothecaries  in  the  county ;  that  she 
diatiDed  every  poppy  that  grew  within  five  milea  of  her,  thKt 
ahe  distributed  her  water  gratis  among  tC  w>"rt<»  ol  -^ea^-. 

isniB^ra  vobeb. 

to  which  the  kaight  added,  that  sho  had  a  \eTV  great  join- 
ture, and  that  the  whole  country  would  iain  have  it  a  match 
between  him  and  her ;  "  and  truly,"  says  8ip  Roger,  "  if  1  had  J 
not  been  engaged,  periiapa  I  could  not  haxe  done  bettor."     ^U 

Hie  diecouree  was  broken  off  by  his  man's  telling  Mm  hf^ 
bad  called  a  coach.  Upon  our  going  to  it,  after  having  cMt 
his  eye  upon  the  wheels,  he  aaked  the  coachman  if  hia  axl^ 
tree  waa  good ;  upon  the  fellow's  telling  him  he  would  war- 
rant it,  the  knight  turned  to  me,  told  me  he  looked  like  aii 
honest  man,  and  went  in  without  further  ceremony. 

We  had  not  gone  far,  when  Sir  Eoger,  popping  out  bis 
head,  called  the  coachman  down  from  bis  bos,  and  upon  bis 
presenting  himself  at  the  window,  asked'him  if  he  smoked ; 
as  I  was  considering  what  this  would  end  in,  he  bid  him  stop 
by  the  way  at  any  good  tobacconist's,  and  take  in  a  roll  of 
their  best  Virginia.  ^Nothing  material  happened  in  the  re- 
maining part  of  our  journey,  till  we  were  set  aown  at  the  west 
end  of  the  Abbey. 

As  we  went  up  the  body  of  the  church  the  knight  pointed 
at  the  trophies  upon  one  of  the  new  monuments,  and  cried 
out,  "  A  brave  man  I  warrant  him !"  Passing  all:erwftrda  by 
Sir  Cloudsly  Shovel,  he  flung  hia  hand  that  way,  and  cried, 
"Sir  Cloudily  Shovel!  a  very  gallant  man  I"  As  we  stood 
before  Busby's  tomb,  the  knight  uttered  himself  again  after 
the  same  manner,  "  Dr.  Buaby,  a  great  man !  he  whipped  my 
grand&tber  ;  a  very  great  man !  I  should  have  gone  to  bim 
myself,  if  I  had  not  been  a  blockhead ;  a  very  great  man ! ' ' 

We  were  immediately  conducted  into  the  little  chapel  on 
the  right  hand.  Sir  Roger  planting  himself  at  our  iiistotian'B 
elbow,  was  very  attentive  to  everything  he  said,  particularly 
to  the  account  he  gave  us  of  the  lord  who  had  cut  off  the 
king  of  Morocco's  head.  Among  several  other  figures,  he 
was  very  well  pleased  to  see  the  statesman  Cecil  upon  hia 
knees  ;  and,  concluding  them  all  to  be  gi-eat  men,  was  con- 
ducted to  the  figure  which  represents  that  martyr  to  good 
housewifery,  who  died  by  the  prick  of  a  needle.  Upon  our 
interpreter's  telling  us,  that  she  was  a  maid  of  honour  ta 
Queen  Eliz»heth,  the  knight  was  very  inquisitive  into  her  _ 
name  and  family ;  and  after  having  regarded  her  finger  fatm 
some  time,  "  I  wonder,  (says  he,)  that  Sir  Eichard  Bakei  " 
said  nothing  of  her  in  hia  Chronicle." 

We  irere  then  conveyed  to  the  two  coronation-chairs,  w 


my  old  friend,  after  Imvitig  heard  that  the  atone  underneath 
the  most  ancient  of  them,  whiuh  was  brought  trom  Scotland, 
Waa  caUed  Jacob's  Pillow,  sat  himself  down  in  the  chair ; 
and  looking  like  the  figure  of  an  old  Gothic  king,  asked  our 
inte^reter,  what  authority  they  had  to  aay  that  Jacob  had 
ever  been  in  Scotland  ?  The  fellow,  inst-ead  of  returning  him 
an  answer,  told  him,  that  he  hoped  hie  Honour  would  pay  hia 
forfeit.  I  could  observe  Sir  Eoger  a,  little  ruffled  upon  being 
thus  trepanned ;  but  our  guide  not  inaieting  upon  his  demand, 
the  knight  soon  recovered  his  good  humour,  and  whispered  in, 
my  ear,  that  if  Will.  Wimble  were  \nt\i  lis,  and  saw  those 
two  chairs,  it  would  go  bard  but  he  would  get  a  tobacco- 
stopper  out  of  one  or  t'  other  of  them. 

Sir  Eoger,  in  the  next  place,  laid  his  hand  upon  Edward 
the  Third's  sword,  and  leaning  upon  the  pummel  of  it,  gave 
ua  the  whole  history  of  the  Black  Prince ;  concluding,  that 
in  Sir  Eichard  Baker's  opinion,  Edward  the  Third  was  one  of 
thegreatest  princes  that  ever  sat  upon  the  English  throne. 

We  were  then  shown  Edward  the  Confessor's  tomb; 
upon  which  Sir  Roger  acquainted  ua,  that  he  was  the  first 
that  touched  for  the  Evil ;  and  afterwards  Henry  the  Fourth's, 
upon  which  he  shook  hia  head,  and  told  us,  there  was  fine 
reading  of  the  casualties  of  that  reign. 

Our  conductor  then  pointed  to  that  monument  where 
tliere  is  the  figure  of  one  of  our  English  kings  without  an 
head ;  and  upon  giving  us  to  know,  that  the  head,  which  was 
of  beaten  silver,  had  been  stolen  away  severa!  years  since : 
"  Some  Whig,  I'll  warrant  you,  (says  Sir  Hoger ;)  you  ought 
to  lock  up  your  kings  better ;  they  will  carry  off  the  body 
too,  if  you  do  not  take  care." 

The  glorious  names  of  Henry  the  Fifth  and  Queen  Elizabeth 
gave  the  knight  great  opportunities  of  shining,  and  of  doing 
justice  to  Sir  Eichard  Baker,  who,  as  our  knight  observed 
with  some  aurpriae,  had  a  great  many  kings  in  him,  whose 
monuments  he  had  not  seen  m  the  Abbey. 

For  my  own  part,  I  could  not  but  be  pleased  to  see  the 
knight  show  such  an  honest  passion  for  the  glory  of  his 
country,  and  such  a  respectful  gratitude  to  the  memoi^  of 

1  must  not  omit,  that  the  benevolence  of  my  good  old 
friend,  which  flows  out  towards  every  one  he  converses  with, 
made  him  very  kind  to  our  interpieteT,  -si^ioai, 'V&  ^E»3*&^ 

upon  as  an  extraoriiinary  man  ;  for  which  reason  he  shoe 
him  by  the  hand  at  parting,  telling  him,  tha,t  he  should  t 
TeiT  glad  to  see  him  at  hifl  lodgings  in  Norfolk-buildingl 
^a  talk  over  these  matters  with  him  more  at  leisiire. 

No.  835.    TTJESDAT,  MABCH  25. 

KeBi>[cere  eieinplB.r  vitfe  mDmnique  jubebo 

Mt  friend  Sir  Eoger  de  Coverley,  when  we  last  met 
gether  at  the  club,  told  me,  that  he  had  a  great  mind  to 
the  jiew  tragedy  with  me,  aaauring  me  at  the  same  time,  tl 
he  had  not  been  at  a  play  these  twenty  years.     The  last 
I  saw,  said  8ir  Boger,  was  the  Committee,  which  1  ehould 
not  have  gone  to  neither,  tad  not  I  been  told  before-hand 
that  it  wna  a  good  Church  of  England  comedy.     He  then 
proceeded  to   inquire  of  me  who  this  Distresaed  Mother 
was ;   and  upon  hearing  that  she  was  Hector's  widow,  lie 
told  me,  that  her  husband  was  a  brave  man,  and  that  when 
he  was  a  aehool-boy  he  had  read  his  life  at  the  end  of  ths 
dictionary.     My  friend  asked  me,  in  the  next  plat*,  if  the» 
would  not  be  some  danger  in  coming  home  late,  in  case  the 
Mohocks   should  be  abroad.     "  I  assure  you,  {says  he,)  I 
thought  I  had  fallen  into  their  hands  last  night ;  for  I  ob- 
served two  or  three  lusty  black  men  that  foUowed  me  half  j 
way  up  Fleet  Street,  and  mended  their  pace  behind  me,  ui'. 
proportion  as  I  put  on  to  go  away  from  them.     Tou  mutt 
know,  (continued  the  knight  with  a  smile,)  I  fancied  they 
had  a  mind  to  hunt  me :  for  I  remember  an  honest  gentle- 
man in  my  neighbourhood,  who  was  served  such  a  trick  in 
King  Charles  the  Second'a  time ;  for  which  reason  he  has 
not  ventured  himself  in  town  ever  since.    I  might  have  shown 
them  very  good  sport,  had  this  been  their  design ;  for  ae  I 
am  an  old  fox-hunter,  I  should  have  turned  and  dodged,  and.] 
have  played  them  a  thousand  tricks  they  had  never  seen  ixi.% 
their  lives  before."     Sir  Soger  added,  that  if  these  gentld*] 
men  had  any  such  intention,  they  did  not  succeed  very  wdl  I 
in  it ;  "  for  I  threw  them  out,  (says  he,)  at  the  end  ot  Xo^S 
folk  Street,  where  I  doubled  the  comer,  and  got  shelter  i' 
iny  lodgings  before  they  could  imagine  what  was  become  o 





Eowerer,  (aaya  the  knight,)  if  Captain  Sentry  will 
make  one  with  ixa  to-morrow  nieht,  and  if  you  will  both  of 
c^  upon  me  about  four  o'clock,  that  we  may  be  at  the 
uouae  before  it  ia  full,  I  will  have  my  own  coach  in  readinesa 
to  attend  you,  for  John  tells  me  he  has  got  the  fore-wheels 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  meet  me  there  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour,  bid  Sir  Eoger  fear  nothing,  for  that  he  had 
put  on  the  same  sword  which  he  had  made  use  of  at  the 
battle  of  Steenkirk.  Sir  Eoger'e  servantB,  and  among  the 
peat  my  old  friend  the  butler,  had,  I  found,  provided  them- 
selvea  with  good  oaken  plnnta,  to  attend  their  master  upon 
this  occasion.  When  we  had  placed  him  in  bia  coach,  with 
myself  at  hia  left  hand,  the  captain  before  him,  and  hia  but- 
ler at  the  head  of  his  footmen  in  the  rear,  we  conToyed  him 
in  safety  to  the  play-houae ;  where,  after  having  marched 
up  the  entry  in  good  order,  the  captain  and  I  went  in  with 
hun,  and  seated  him  betiviit  us  in  the  pit.  As  soon  as  the 
house  waa  full,  and  the  candlea  lighted,  my  old  friend  stood 
up  and  looked  about  him  with  that  pleasure,  which  a  mind 
seasoned  with  humanity  naturally  feela  in  itaeltj  at  the  sight 
of  a  multitude  of  people  who  aeem  pleased  with  one  another, 
and  partake  of  the  same  common  entertainment.  I  could 
not  but  fancy  to  myaelf,  as  the  old  man  stood  up  iu  the 
middle  of  the  pit,  that  he  made  a  verj'  proper  centre  to  a 
tragic  audience.  Upon  the  entering  of  IPyrrDua,  the  knight 
told  me,  that  he  did  not  believe  tbe  King  of  Prance  himself 
had  a  better  strut.  I  was,  indeed,  very  attentive  to  my  old 
friend' a  remarks,  because  I  looked  upon  them  as  a  piece  of 
natural  criticism,  and  was  well  pleased  to  hear  him  at  the 
conclusion  of  almost  every  scene,  telling  me  that  he  could 
not  imagine  how  the  play  would  end.  One  while  he  ap- 
peared much  concerned  for  Andromache  ;  and  a  little  while 
after  as  much  for  Hermione :  and  was  estremely  puzzled  to 
think  what  would  become  of  Pyrrhus. 

When  Sir  Eoger  aaw  Andromache's  obstinate  refusal  to 
her  lover's  importunities,  he  whispered  me  in  the  ear,  that  he 
was  sure  ahe  would  never  have  him;  to  which  he  added, 
with  a  more  than  ordinary  vehemence,  you  cannot  imagine, 
sir,  what  it  is  to  have  to  do  with  a  widow.  Upon  Pyrrhus 
his  tjireatening  afterwards  to  leave  her,  the  knigiit  shook  his 
head,  and  muttered  to  himself.  Ay,  do  if  you  can.    This  part 

''SsP  asoibok'b  vobes. 

dwelt  BO  much  npon  mv  Friend's  imaginatioa,  that  j 
close  of  the  third  act,  a«  I  was  thinkiiig  of  something  el 
whispered  in  my  ear,  "  These  widows,  air,  are  the  moai  per- 
verse creatures  in  the  world.  But  pray,  (aays  he,)  you  that 
are  a  critic,  ie  this  play  accordiag  to  your  dramatic  rulea,  as 
you  call  them  ?  Should  your  people  in  tragedy  always  talk 
to  be  understood?  Why,  there  is  not  a  single  sentence  in 
this  play  that  I  do  not  know  the  meaning  of." 

The  fourth  act  very  luckily  begun  before  I  bad  time  to 
give  the  old  gentleman  an  answer ;  "  Well,  (saya  the  knight, 
Bitting  down  with  great  satisfaction,)  I  suppose  we  are  now 
to  see  Hector's  ghost."  He  then  renewed  his  attention, 
and,  from  time  to  time,  fell  a  praising  the  widow.  Ho  made, 
indeed,  a  little  mistake  as  to  one  of  her  pages,  whom,  at  his 
first  entering,  he  took  for  Astyanai;  out  he  quickly  set 
himself  right  in  that  particular,  though,  at  the  same  time,  he 
owned  he  should  have  been  very  glad  to  have  seen  the  little 
boy,  "  who,"  says  be,  "  must  needs  be  a  very  fine  child  by 
the  account  that  is  given  of  him."  Upon  Hermione's  going 
off  with  a  menace  to  l^rriiuB,  the  audience  gave  a  loud  dap ; 
o  which  Sir  Boger  added,  "  On  my  word,  a  notable  young 

Ab  there  was  a  very  remarkable  silence  and  stillness  in  the 
audience  durtug  the  whole  action,  it  was  natural  for  them  to 
take  tbe  opportunity  of  the  intervals  between  the  acts,  to 
express  their  opinion  of  the  players,  and  of  tbeir  reapeotive 
parts.  Sir  Boger  hearing  a  chister  of  them  praise  Orestes, 
struck  in  with  them,  and  told  them,  that  be  thought  hie 
friend  Pylades  was  a  very  sensible  man ;  aa  they  were  after- 
wards applauding  Pyrrhus,  Sir  Eoger  put  in  a  second  time, 
"  And  let  me  tellyou,  (saya  he,)  though  he  speaks  but  little, 
I  like  the  old  feUow  in  whiskers  as  well  as  auy  of  them." 
Captain  Sentry,  seeing  two  or  three  wags  who  sat  near  us, 
lean  with  an  attentive  ear  towards  Sir  Roger,  and  fearing 
lost  they  shoidd  smoke  the  knight,  plucked  liirn  by  the  elbow, 
and  whispered  something  in  bis  ear,  that  lasted  till  the 
opening  of  the  fifth  act,  Tbe  knigbt  was  wonderfully  atten- 
tive to  the  account  which  Orestes  gives  of  Pyrrhus  bia  death, 
and  at  tlie  conclusion  of  it,  told  me  it  was  such  a  bloody 
piece  of  work,  that  he  was  glad  it  was  not  done  upon  the 
stage.  Seeing  afterwards  Orestes  in  bis  raving  fit,  he  grew  ■ 
more  tban  'wdinary  serious,  and  took  occasion  to  mcra" 


(in  his  way)  upon  an  evil  conscience,  adding,  that  "  Orestes, 
in  his  madness,  looked  as  if  he  saw  something." 

Aa  we  were  the  first  that  came  into  the  house,  bo  we  were 
the  last  that  went  out  of  it ;  being  resolved  to  have  a  clear 
pagaage  for  our  old  friend,  whom  we  did  not  care  to  Tenture 
among  the  justling  of  the  crowd.  Sir  Boger  went  out  fully 
satisfied  with  his  entertainment,  and  we  guarded  him  to  his 
lodgings  in  the  same  manner  that  we  brought  him  to  the 
play-house ;  being  highly  pleased,  for  my  own  part,  not  only 
with  the  performance  of  the  excellent  piece  which  had  been 
presented,  but  with  the  satisfaction  w'hicii  it  had  given  to 
the  good  old  man. 

No.  343.    TUESDAY,  APRIL  3. 

— Errat  et  iJlinc 
Hue  Tenit,  hlnc  ilhic.  et  quoslibet  occupnl  artuj 
Spiriina :  eque  feria  humun  in  coipura  Ininsit, 
Inque  ferns  noater—  Pyihao.  ir.  Ov. 

Will.  Honeycomb,  who  loves  to  show  upon  occasion  all 
the  little  learning  he  has  picked  up,  told  us  yesterday  at  the 
club,  that  he  thought  there  might  be  a  great  deal  said  for 
the  transmigration  of  souls,  and  that  the  eastern  parts  of  the 
world  believed  in  that  doctrine  to  this  day.  "  Sir  Paul  Ry- 
caut,  (says  he,)  gives  us  an  account  of  several  well-disposed 
Mahometans  that  purchase  the  freedom  of  any  little  bird 
they  see  confined  to  a  cage,  and  think  they  merit  as  much  . 
by  it,  as  we  should  do  here  by  ransoming  any  of  our  coun- 
trymen from  their  captivity  at  Algiers.  Tou  may  kuow, 
(says  "Will.,)  the  reason  is,  because  they  consider  every 
animal  as  a  brother  or  a  sister  in  disguise,  and  therefore 
think  themselves  obliged  to  extend  their  charity  to  them, 
though  under  such  mean  circumstaaees.  They  will  tell  you, 
(says  Will-,)  that  the  soul  of  a  man,  when  he  dies,  imme- 
diately passes  into  the  body  of  another  man,  or  of  some 
brute,  which  he  resembled  in  his  humour,  or  his  fortune, 
when  he  was  one  of  us." 

Ab  I  was  wondering  what  this  profusion  of  learning  would 
end  in.  Will,  told  ns  that  Jack  Fi-eelove,  who  was  a  fellow  of 
whiui,  made  love  to  one  of  those  ladies  ■wW  tWu-s  swwj  »Sk 

tbeir  fondness  on  patrota,  monkeya,  and  lap-doga,  V] 
going  to  pay  her  a,  visit  one  moming,  he  wrote  a  very  pi  . .  _ 
epistle  upon  this  hint.  "  Jact,  (aajH  he,)  was  conaucie^ 
into  the  parlour,  where  he  diverted  nimBelf  for  some  time 
with  her  favourite  monkey,  which  was  chained  in  one  of  the 
windows  ;  till  at  length  observing  a  pen  and  ink  lie  by  him, 
he  writ  the  following  letter  to  his  mistrees,  in  the  person  of 
the  monkey ;  and  upon  her  not  coming  down  bo  soon  as  he 
eipected,  he  left  it  in  the  window,  and  went  about  hia 

"  The  lady  soon  after  coming  into  the  parlour,  and  Beeing 
her  monkey  look  upon  a  paper  with  great  earnestness,  took 
it  up,  and  to  this  day  is  ia  some  doubt  (says  "Will.)  whether 
it  was  written  by  Jack  or  the  monkey." 

"  MiJJAM, 

"  Not  having  the  gift  of  speech,  I  have  a  long 


waited  in  vain  for  an  opportunity  of  making  myself  known 
to  you ;  and  having  at  present  the  conveniences  of  pen,  ink, 
and  paper  by  me,  I  gladly  take  the  occasion  of  giving  you 
my  history  in  writing,  which  I  could  not  do  by  word  of 
mouth.  Tou  must  know,  madam,  that  about  a  thousand 
years  ago  I  was  an  Indian  brachman,  and  versed  in  all  those 
mysterious  secrets  which  your  European  philosopher,  called 
Pythagoras,  ia  said  to  have  learned  from  our  fraternity.  I 
had  BO  ingratiated  myself  by  my  great  skill  in  the  occult 
Bcieucea  with  a  dsemon  whom  I  used  to  eonveree  with,  that 
he  promised  to  grant  me  whatever  I  should  ask  of  him.  I 
desired  that  my  soul  mieht  never  pass  into  the  body  of  a 
brute  creature ;  but  this  he  told  me  was  not  in  hia  power  tc 
grant  mo.  I  then  begged  that  into  whatever  creature  1 
should  chance  to  transmigrate,  I  might  atill  retain  my  me- 
mory, and  be  conscious  that  I  was  the  same  person  who 
lived  in  different  aniinala.  This  he  told  me  was  within  his 
power,  and  accordingly  promised  on  the  word  of  a  dtemon 
that  he  would  grant  me  what  I  desired.  From  that  time 
forth  I  lived  so  very  unblameably,  that  I  was  made  president 
of  a  college  of  braehmans,  an  office  which  I  discharged  with 
great  integrity  till  the  day  of  my  death. 

"  I  was  then  shuffled  into  another  human  body,  and  acted 
my  part  so  very  well  in  it,  that  I  became  first  minister  ' 
prince  who  reigned  upon  the  banks  of  the  G-angea.     I 

^ved  in  great  honour  for  several  years,  but  by  degrees  lost 
all  the  innocence  of  the  Brnchinan,  being  obliged  to  rifle  and 
oppress  the  people  to  enrich  my  sovereign  ;  till  at  length  I 
became  so  otGous,  that  my  master,  to  recover  liis  credit  with 
tis  subjects,  shot  me  through  the  heart  ^lith  an  arrow,  as 
1  was  one  day  addressing  myself  to  him  at  the  head  of  hia 

"  TJpon  iDv  nest  remove  I  found  myself  in  the  woods  under 
the  shape  of  a  jackall,  and  soon  listed  layself  in  the  service 
-of  a  lion.  I  used  to  yelp  near  his  den  about  miduigbt,  which 
was  his  time  of  rousing  and  seeking  after  his  prey.  Ha 
always  followed  me  in  the  rear,  and  when  I  had  run  down  a 
fat  buck,  a  wild  goat,  or  an  hare,  after  he  had  feasted  very 
plentifully  upon  it  himself,  woiild  now  and  then  throw  me 
a  bone  that  was  but  half  picked  for  my  encourogeraeut ; 
but  upon  my  being  unsuccessful  in  two  or  three  ehaaes,  he 
gave  me  such  a  confounded  gripe  in  his  anger,  that  I  died 
of  it. 

"  In  my  nest  transmigration  I  was  again  set  upon  two  legs, 
and  became  an  Indian  tas-gatherer  ;  but  having  been  guilty 
of  great  extravagancies,  and  being  married  to  an  expensive 
jade  of  a  wife,  I  ran  so  cursedly  in  debt,  that  I  durst  not  show 
my  head.  I  could  no  sooner  step  out  of  my  house,  but  I  was 
arrested  by  somebody  or  other  that  lay  in  wait  for  me.  A  a 
I  ventured  abroad  one  night  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  I  was 
taken  up  and  hurried  into  a  dun^joti,  where  I  died  a  few 
months  after. 

"  My  soul  then  entered  into  a  flying-iisb,  and  in  that  state 
Jed  a  most  melancholy  life  for  the  space  of  sis  years.  Several 
&hes  of  prey  pursued  me  when  I  was  in  the  water,  and  if  I 
betook  mj^elf  to  my  wings,  it  was  ten  to  one  but  I  had  a 
flock  of  birds  aiming  at  me.  As  I  was  one  day  flying  amidst 
a  fleet  of  English  ships,  I  observed  a  huge  sear-gull  whetting 
his  bill  and  hovering  just  over  my  head  :  upon  mj  dipping 
into  the  water  to  avoid  him,  I  fell  into  the  mouth  of  a  mou- 
ftrous  shark  that  swallowed  me  down  in  an  instant, 

"  I  was  some  years  afterwards,  to  my  great  surprise,  an 
eminent  hanker  in  Lombard  Street ;  and  remembering  how  I 
had  formerly  suffered  foi'  want  of  money,  became  so  very  sor- 
did and  avaricious,  that  the  whole  town  cried  shame  of  me. 
I  was  a  miserable  little  old  fellow  tn  Liok  upon,  for  I  had  in 


B  iDoiiner  staned  myself,  snd  wu  oothing  bat  skin  and 
when  I  died. 

"  I  wM  afterwarda  very  much  troubled  and  amazed  to  find 
myself  dwindled  into  an  emmet.  I  waa  heartily  concerned 
to  make  bo  insignificant  a  fieure,  and  did  not  know  but  some 
time  OP  other  I  might  be  reduced  to  a  mite  if  I  did  not  mend 
my  manners.  I  therefore  applied  myself  with  great  diligencQ^ 
to  the  ofBces  that  were  allotted  me,  and  was  generally  loot 
upon  £iB  the  notnbleat  ant  in  the  whole  mole-bill.  1  wai 
last  picked  up,  as  I  was  groaning  under  a  burden,  by  an 
iucky  cock-Bparrow  that  Cved  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  had 
before  made  great  depredations  upon  our  commonwealth. 

■'  I  then  bettered  my  condition  a  little,  and  lived  a  whole 
Mimmer  in  the  shape  of  a  bee:  but  being  tired  with  the  pain- 
ful (ind  penuriouB  life  I  had  undergone  in  my  two  last  trans- 
niigrationa,  I  fell  iuto  the  other  extreme,  and  turned  drone. 
Ab  1  one  day  headed  a  party  to  plunder  an  hive,  we  were  re- 
wiivod  BO  warmly  by  the  swarm  which  defended  it,  that  we 
wrrH  most  of  us  left  dead  upon  the  spot. 

"  I.  might  tell  you  of  many  other  transmigrationa  which  I 
went  tlirough ;  how  1  was  a  town-rake,  and  afterwards  did 
penuiico  in  a  bay-gelding  for  ten  years  ;  as  also  how  I  waa  a 
tailor,  a  shrimp,  and  a  torn-tit.  In  the  last  of  these  my  Bbapee 
1  waa  shot  in  the  Christmas  holidaya  by  a  young  jack-a-napes, 
who  would  needs  try  his  new  gun  upon  me. 

"  But  I  ahall  pass  over  these  ana  several  other  stages  of 
life,  to  remind  you  of  the  yoimg  beau  who  made  love  to  you 
about  six  years  since.  You  may  remember,  madam,  how  be 
mB.tiked,  and  danced,  and  sung,  and  played  a  thousand  trickia 
to  gain  you ;  and  how  ho  waa  at  last  carried  off  by  a  cold 
that  he  hod  got  under  your  window  one  night  in  a  serenade, 
1  was  that  unfortunate  young  fellow,  whom  you  were  then  so 
cruel  to.  Not  long  after  my  shitVing  that  imlucky  body,  I 
found  mpelf  upon  a  hill  in  Ethiopia,  where  I  lived  iu  my 
present  grolea<iue  shape,  till  I  waa  caught  by  a  servant  of 
the  English fiiclory.andsentoverinto  Great  Britain:  1  need 
not  inform  you  how  I  came  into  your  hand.  Tou  see,  madam, 
this  is  not  tne  first  time  that  vou  have  had  me  in  a  chain :  I 
am,  however,  very  happy  in  ibis  my  captiWty,  as  you  o&ea 
bestow  on  me  thow  kisses  and  v«ressea  whidu  I  would  hum 
girrn  thf  world  for  whenlwasaman.     I  hope  itusdiacomyi 



*.  IHa   BPECTATOB.  339 

if  my  pemon  will  riot  tend  to  my  diaadTantage,  but  that  you 
rill  atUl  continue  your  aecuBtomed  favoura  to 

"Tour  most  devoted 

humble  Bervaiit, 


"  P.  S.  I  would  advise  your  little  ahoi;k-dog  to  keep  out 
of  my  way  ;  for  as  I  look  upon  him  to  be  the  most  formidable 
of  my  rivals,  I  may  chance  one  time  or  other  to  give  him  sucb 
a  snap  as  he  won't  like." 

No.  349.    THURSDAY,  APfilL  10. 

I  AM  very  much  pleaded  with  a,  consolatory  letter  of  Ph». 
laris,  to  one  who  had  lost  a  sou  that  was  a  yoimg  man  of 
great  merit.  The  thought  with  which  he  comfori^a  the 
afflicted  father,  ia,  to  the  best  of  my  memo^,  as  foUowB : 
that  he  ahould  eoDBider  death  had  set  a  kind  of  aeal  upon  his 
son's  character,  and  placed  him  out  of  the  reach  of  vice 
and  infamy :  that  while  he  lived  he  was  atiU  within  the  pos- 
sibility of  falling  away  from  virtue,  and  losing  the  fame  of 
which  he  was  posaeased.  Death  only  closes  a  man's  reput- 
ation, and  determines  it  aa  good  or  bad. 

This,  among  other  motivea,  may  be  one  reaaon  why  we  are 
naturally  averse  to  the  launching  out  into  a  man's  praiae  tiD 
hia  head  is  laid  in  the  dust.  "While  he  ia  capable  of  changing, 
we  may  be  forced  to  retract  our  opinions.  He  may  foj- 
fdt  the  e  t  n  w  la  nceived  of  him,  and  some  time  or 
other  app  ar  md     a  different  light  from  what  he  does 

at  preaen  In  h  as  the  life  of  any.  man  cannot  be 
called  happy  u  h  ppy  so  neither  can  it  be  pronounced 
'  3US  or  virt     u    b  the  conclusion  of  it. 

b  was  up  n  n  deration  that  Epaminondaa,  being 

I  Mked  whe  h      Chabna    Iphicratea,  or  he  himself  deserved 

I  moat  to  be  esteemed  ?     You  must  first  see  us  die,  (said  he,) 

I  before  that  question  can  be  attawered." 

'      As  there  is  not  a  more  melancholy  consideration  to  a  good 

840  asdisob'b  irooES. 

man  than  hia  being  obnojious  to  snoh  a  change,  bo  there  iB^ 
nothing  more  glorious  than  to  keep  up  an  uniformity  in  his  J 
actions,  and.  nreBerre  the  beauh-  of  hia  character  to  the  last. 

The  end  ot  a  man's  life  is  often  compared  to  the  winding 
up  of  a  well-written,  play,  where  the  principal  persona  siiU 
BL't  in  character,  whatever  the  fate  ia  which  they  undergo. 
There  is  acarce  a  great  person  in  the  Grecian  or  Bomau  luB- 
tory,  whose  death  baa  not  been  remarked  upon  by  Bome 
writer  or  other,  and  cenaured  or  applauded  according  to  the 
geniua  or  priuciplea  of  the  person  who  baa  deacanted  on  it. 
Btonsieur  de  St.  Evremont  ia  very  particular  in  setting  forth 
the  constancy  and  coinage  of  Petronius  Arbiter  during  hia 
last  momenta,  and  thioka  he  diacovers  in  them  a  greater 
firmnesB  of  mind  and  resolution  than  in  the  death  of  Seneca, 
Cato,  or  Socrates.  There  ia  no  queation  but  this  polite 
author's  affectation  of  appearing  singular  in  bis  remarks,  and 
making  discoveries  which  had  escaped  the  observation  of 
others,  threw  him  into  this  courae  of  reflection.  It  was 
Petronius'a  merit,  that  he  died  in  the  same  gfuety  of  temper 
ia  which  he  lived  :  but  as  hia  life  was  altogether  loose  and 
dissolute,  the  indifference  which  he  showed  at  the  cloeo  of  it 
is  to  be  looked  upon  aa  a  piece  of  natural  careleasuess  and 
levity,  rather  than  fortitude.  The  resolution  of  Socrates  ppo- 
ueeded  from  very  different  motives,  the  conaciouaness  of  a 
well-spent  life,  and  the  prospect  of  a  happy  eternity.  If  the 
ingenious  author  above-mentioned  was  so  pleased  with  gaiety 
of  humour  in  a  dying  man,  he  might  have  found  a  much 
nobler  instance  of  it  in  our  countiyman,  Sir  Thomas  More. 

This  great  and  learned  man  was  famous  for  enlivening  his 
ordinary  discourses  with  wit  and  pleasantry  ;  and,  as  Eras- 
mus tefls  him  in  an  epistle  dedicatory,  acted  in  all  parta  of 
lil'e  like  a  second  Democritua. 

H»  died  upon  a  point  of  religion,  and  is  respected  aa  a 
martyr  by  that  aide  for  which  ho  sufi^red.  That  innocent 
mirth  which  hadbccit  so  conspicuous  in  his  life,  did  not  for- 
sake him  to  the  last :  he  mAiiittuncd  the  same  cheerfulness 
of  heart  uiiou  the  soaffold.  which  he  used  to  show  at  his  table; 
and  unonlsyiug  his  head  on  the  block,  gavi?  instances  of  that 
good  Uuino'ur  with  which  Iw  had  always  entertained  hia 
tHenda  in  th«  nnwt  orvliuary  oecurrenwo-  His  death  was  of 
a  pioco  with  hia  life.  Tlvew  was  nothing  in  it  new.  forced, 
or  affoctt?d.     Uo  Hi  not  \<mV  xt&Mv  \W  «»c«rta^  <£  \ua  head 


Gvm  hia  liody  aa  a  circumstance  that  ought  to  produce  any 
change  in  the  disposition  of  hia  mind  ;  and  as  he  died  under 
a  fixed  and  settled  hope  of  immortality,  he  thought  any  un- 
UBual  degree  of  Borrow  and  concern  improper  on  such  an  oc- 
casion, as  had  nothing  in  it  which  could  deject  or  terrify  him. 

There  is  no  great  danger  of  imitation  from  this  eiample 
Men's  naturd  leara  wiU  he  a  sufficient  guard  against  it.  I 
■  shall  only  observe,  that  what  was  philosophy  in  this  extra- 
ordinary man,  would  be  frenny  in  one  who  does  not  resemble 
him  as  well  in  the  chcerfulnesa  of  his  t-emper,  as  in  the 
sanctity  of  his  life  and  manners. 

I  shflll  conclude  this  paper  with  the  inatance  of  a  person 
who  seems  to  me  to  have  ahown  more  intrepidity  and  great- 
neas  of  soul  in  hie  dying  momenta,  than  what  we  meet  with 
among  any  of  the  most  celebrated  Greeks  and  Eomans.  I 
meet  with  this  instance  in  the  history  of  the  revolutions  in 
Portugal,  written  by  the  Abbot  be  Yertot. 

When  Don  Sebastian,  king  of  Portugal,  had  invaded  the 
territoriea  of  Muly  Moluc,  emperor  of  Morocco,  in  order 
to  dethrone  him,  and  set  his  crown  upon  the  head  of  his 
nephew,  Moluc  was  wearing  away  with  a  distemper  which  he 
himself  knew  was  incurable.  However,  he  prepared  for  the 
reception  oi"  ao  formidable  an  enemy,  He  was  indeed  so  far 
spent  with  hia  sicknesa,  that  he  did  expect  to  live  out  the 
whole  day  when  the  last  decisive  battle  was  given;  but 
knowing  the  fatal  conaequences  that  woiild  happen  to  hia 
children  and  people,  in  case  he  should  die  before  he  put  an 
end  to  the  war,  he  commanded  his  principal  officers,  that  if 
he  died  during  the  engagement,  they  should  conceal  hia  death 
from,  the  army,  and  that  they  should  ride  up  to  the  litter  ia 
which  his  corpse  was  carried,  under  pretence  of  receiving 
orders  from  him  as  usual.  Before  battle  begun  he  was 
carried  through  all  the  ranks  of  bis  army  in  an  open  litter, 
Bs  they  stood  drawn  up  in  array,  encouraging  them  to  fl^ht 
valiantly  in  defence  ol  their  reugion  and  country.  Finding 
afterwards  the  battle  to  go  against  him,  though  be  was  very 
near  hia  last  agoniea,  he  threw  himself  out  of  hia  litter, 
rallied  bis  army,  and  led  them  on  to  the  charge ;  which  after- 
wards ended  in  a  complete  victory  on  the  side  of  the  Moora. 
He  had  no  sooner  brought  hia  men  to  the  engagement, IraS. 
finding  himself  utterly  spent,  he  waa  agaim  ■KM^iaee&.  ^a.  V " 
litter,  where,  Jaying  lua  finger  on  ^ia  taQut\i,\.a  tTC^>»3i. 


crecy  to  hia  officers,  who  stood  about  him,  he  died  a  few  a 
□ente  after  in  that  posture. 

No,  355.     THtntSDAT,  APEIL  17. 

Non  ego  mordaci  distrioii  carmme  qiieiiqiiB.iii.  Ovid. 
I  HJLVB  been  very  often  tempted  to  write  invectives  uj 
thoee  who  have  detracted  irom  my  woriH,  or  spoken  in  dero-' 
eatton  of  my  person;  but  I  look  upon  it  as  a.  particular 
nappiness,  that  I  have  always  hindered  my  reaentmenta  from 
proreeding  to  this  extremity.  I  once  had  gone  through  half 
a  satire,  but  found  bo  many  motiona  of  humanity  rising  in 
me  towards  the  persons  whom  I  had  severely  treated,  that  I 
threw  it  into  the  fire  without  finishing  it.  I  have  been  an- 
gry enough  to  make  several  little  epigrams  and  lampoons  j 
and  after  having  admired  them  a  day  or  two,  have  likewise 
committed  them  to  the  flames.  These  I  look  upon  as  bo 
many  sacrifices  to  humanity,  and  have  received  much  greater 
satisfaction  fiwm  the  suppressing'  such  performances,  than  I, 
could  have  done  from  any  reputation  they  might  have 
cured  me,  or  Irom  anv  mortification  they  might  have 
my  enemies,  in  case  I"  had  made  them  public.  If  a  mc 
auy  talent  in  writing,  it  showa  a  good  mind  to  forbear 
swering  calumnies  and  reproaches  in  the  same  spirit  of  bit- 
temesa  with  which  they  are  offered:  but  when  a  man  has 
been  at  some  pains  in  making  suitable  returns  to  an  enemy, 
and  has  the  instruments  of  revenge  in  hia  hands,  to  let  drop 
bis  wrath,  and  stifle  his  resentment,  seems  to  have  some- 
thing in  it  great  and  beroical.  There  is  a  particular  merit 
in  such  a  way  of  foi^iving  an  enemy;  and  the  more  violent 
and  unprovoked  the  ofieoce  has  been,  the  greater  still  is  the 
merit  of  him  who  thus  for^ves  it. 

I  never  met  ivith  a  consideration  that  is  more  finelv  Epon, 
and  wh^  has  better  pleased  me,  than  one  in  Epictetus,  which 
places  an  enemy  in  a  new  light,  and  pves  us  a  view  of  him 
altc^ther  diflerent  from  that  in  which  we  an?  used  to  re- 
^rdhim.     The  sense  of  it  is  as  follows:  •'D^>ea  a  nraQ  i^ 


proach  thee  for  being  proud  or  ill-natured, 
ceited,  ignorant  or  detracting?  consider  with  thyself  whether 
his  reproaches  are  true  ;  if  they  are  not,  consider  that  thou  art 
not  the  person  whom  he  reproaches,  but  that  he  reviles  an 
imaginaiT  being,  and  perhaps  loves  what  thou  really  art, 
though  he  hates  what  thou  appearest  to  be.     If  his  re- 

f  roaches  are  true,  if  thou  art  tne  envious,  ill-natured  man 
e  takes  thee  for,  give  thyself  another  turn,  become  mild, 
affable,  and  obliging,  and  his  reproaches  of  thee  naturally 
cease  :  his  reproaches  may  indeed  continue,  but  thou  art  no 
longer  the  person  whom  he  reproaches." 

I  often  apply  this  rule  to  myself;  and  when  I  hear  of  a 
satirical  speech  or  writing  that  is  aimed  at  me,  I  eiamine 
my  own  heart,  whether  I  deserve  it  or  not.  If  I  bring  in  a 
verdict  against  myself,  I  endeavour  to  rectify  my  conduct 
for  the  iiiture  in  those  particulars  which  have  drawn  the 
censure  upon  me ;  but  if  the  whole  invective  be  grounded 
upon  a  falsehood,  I  trouble  myself  no  further  about  it,  and 
look  upon  my  name  at  the  head  of  it  to  signify  no  more 
than  one  of  those  fictitious  names  made  use  of  by  an  author 
to  introduce  an  imaginary  character.  Whj^  should  a  man 
be  sensible  of  the  sting  of  a  reproach,  who  is  a  stranger  to 
the  guilt  that  is  implied  in  it  ?  or  subject  himself  to  the 
pen^ty,  when  he  knows  he  has  never  committed  the  crime  ? 
This  is  a  piece  of  fortitude,  which  every  one  owes  to  his  own 
innocence,  and  without  which  it  is  impossible  for  a  man  of 
any  merit  or  figure  to  live  at  peace  with  himself  iu  a  coun- 
try that  abounds  with  wit  and  liberty. 

The  famous  Monsieur  Balzac,  in  a  letter  to  the  chancellor 
of  Prance,  who  had  prevented  the  publication  of  a  book 
against  him,  has  the  following  words,  which  are  a  lively  pic- 
ture of  the  greatness  of  mind  so  visible  in  the  works  of  fliat 
author.  "  If  it  was  a  new  thing,  it  mar  be  I  should  not  be 
diapleased  with  the  auppression  of  the  iirst  libel  that  should 
abuse  me ;  but  since  there  are  enough  of  them  to  make  a 
small  library,  I  am  secretly  pleased  to  see  the  number  in- 
creased, and  take  delight  in  raising  a  heap  of  stones  that 
envy  has  cast  at  me  without  doing  me  any  harm." 

Tie  author  here  alludes  to  those  mon